APPENDIX II
Dr. Wm. Stukeley, 1687-1765, was a famous Lincolnshire antiquarian. He practised medicine, first at Boston and then at Grantham from 1710 to 1726. He was made an F.R.S. in 1717, and in that or the following year he helped to establish the Society of Antiquaries in London, and was for the first nine years secretary to that Society. In 1719 he became an M.D. of Cambridge and was made a member of the “Spalding Gentlemen’s Society” in 1722. In 1727 he took Holy Orders and from 1730 to 1748 officiated as Vicar of All Saints at Stamford, where he founded the short-lived “Brazenose Society.” He was a great friend of Sir Isaac Newton and kept up his interest in scientific matters to the end, inasmuch as he put off his service on one occasion in order that his congregation might watch an eclipse of the sun. Whilst still Vicar of Stamford he was made Rector of Somerby near Grantham, 1739-1747, but he retired from both livings in 1748, and spent the rest of his life in London, where at the age of 75 he preached his first sermon in spectacles, taking as his text “Now we see through a glass darkly.” He wrote five volumes of Notes of the proceedings of the “Royal Society,” which are now in the library of the “Spalding Gentlemen’s Society,” and he dedicated his “Itinerarium curiosum” to Maurice Johnson, the founder of that society. He took, for many years, antiquarian tours all over England; writing at some length on Stonehenge and the Roman Wall, and often illustrating his articles, for he was a skilful draughtsman. He died in London in his seventy-ninth year.
APPENDIX III
A LOWLAND PEASANT POET
I had not long ago a couple of poems put into my hands by one who, knowing the author, told me something of his life and circumstances. Being much struck by the poems I set to work to make inquiries in the hope of getting something further. But he seems to have written very little. His nephew copied out and sent The Auld Blasted Tree and added “I made inquiry of my aunt if she had any more; she says those you have seen along with this one I now enclose were all he wrote, at least the best of them.” The relatives allowed me to see the account of his funeral with an appreciation of the man as it appeared in the local newspaper. It ran as follows, and was published in The Peebleshire Advertiser, July 7, 1906.
THE LATE MR. FARQUHARSON, LONELYBIELD.
Our obituary of Saturday last contained the name of one whose memory will be for long in this district. We refer to the late Alexander Forrester Farquharson. His “mid name” takes us back to the first baptismal scene of by-gone long occupants of Linton Manse, viz., the Rev. Alexander Forrester, whose father, too, was minister before. Born in Carlops sixty-nine years ago, there are but few now amongst us who were children then. When six years old, his father, of the same vocation as himself, removed to the picturesque hamlet at the foot of the “Howe,” and here his lifetime was spent. Married to one of a family of long pastoral connection with our district, who still survives to cherish the happy memories of their long sojourn together, in this, their quiet and peaceful home, they reared their family. By his departure, there has gone from amongst us one of the finest types of Scotchmen that our country districts develop, both, it may be said, in lineaments of feature and character. But, added to the possession generally of the best features of our race, there was in him truly a special element, which seemed to be gathered from the classic scenes in which he was reared. It is not too much to say that his manner and language (quaint to a degree) were a living, embodied personification of the genius of the place, as pictured in the pages of the immortal Pastoral of Ramsay. Gifted with musical powers and some inspiration from the Muses—which, however, not often saw the light—these were fostered in his wanderings amid the lovely scenes, o’er moor and fell, whither his daily vocations led. And with such characteristics, added to his stores of local lore and story, and knowledge of bird, beast, and fossil, it may be gathered how entertaining were the “cracks” in the homesteads he visited, and how much these would be looked forward to and welcomed. And not less so were those in the cosy home in the “Bield,”[39] to which many a one of kindred spirit specially pilgrimaged. Evidence of this was ample from the large gathering from all parts to his resting-place with his “forbears” in Linton’s “auld kirkyaird.”
Thus far the newspaper of 1906; and a correspondent who knew the family writes under date March 18, 1912, “Alexander Forrester Farquharson (the subject of the foregoing notice) was born on Sept. 26, 1836, and was named Forrester after the minister of West Linton Parish. He was the son of Andrew Farquharson, mole catcher and small Farmer, and Isabella Cairns, both natives of the Carlops district who lived there at a house called Lonely Bield. Alexander lived in the same house, and followed his father’s occupation. His son died lately and the mother has now left the House.” From this somewhat meagre account we may gather that the whole of his life was spent in Nature’s lonely places
“up on the mountains, in among the hills”
and in this respect he resembles Allan Ramsay who drank in the poetry of Nature when a boy at Leadhills high up on the Crawford moor in Lanarkshire, where hills, glens, and burns, with birds and flowers and ever-changing skies were his to watch and study and take delight in, at the impressionable season of boyhood; whereby Nature herself laid the foundations of his poetic fancies. And this opportunity to walk with Nature came also to Farquharson, in even a greater measure than it did to Ramsay; for he, like Burns, lived and laboured in the country after he had grown to manhood. But Farquharson had not so good an education as the other two, nor did it fall to him, as it did to them, to have at the outset of his career books put into his hands which directed his attention more especially to poetry. Thus, what the selection of English Songs, which he called his Vade mecum, did for Burns, Watson’s collection of Scottish poems did for Ramsay, and among these, notably, one by Robt. Semphill called “The life and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan” and another by Hamilton of Gilbertfield, “The last dying words of Bonnie Heck.” Later, Hamilton, who by this poem first inspired Ramsay with the desire to write in verse, heartily recognised his merit and himself wrote of him
“O fam’d and celebrated Allan!
Renowned Ramsay! canty callan!
There’s nouther Hieland man nor Lawlan
In poetrie,
But may as soon ding doun Tantallan
As match wi’ thee.”
This source of inspiration from books of poetry never, as far as we know, fell to the lot of Farquharson, whose education was altogether on a lower plane. He was born and died just a Scottish peasant; but his communing with Nature gave him the power of observation, whilst the love of reading, which has for generations been the heritage of the Scots even in the humblest walks of life, taught him how to express the thoughts which came to him, and he had undoubtedly a gift for verse. His poems on his old “Hardie” fiddle, and on the Sundew are so good that they might have been written by Burns. But, like Burns and Ramsay too, he is best when he sticks to the vernacular. When he begins to write English he is less convincing. It is well to remember that Ramsay could owe nothing to Burns, as he died in 1758, the year before Burns was born; but Farquharson, whose widow is still alive, died only the other day, and was acquainted with the works certainly of one and probably of both of them. This does not, however, make him less deserving of notice; for little as he wrote, the two poems just mentioned show, I cannot help thinking, a high degree of poetic merit, being not merely surprising as the work of a peasant, but—extremely good per se, and serve to show how the true poetic gift may lurk unsuspected in a country village. In his poems Fair Habbies Howe (or hollow) and Monk’s Burn he refers to the fact that the descriptions of Nature in Allan Ramsay’s pastoral The Gentle Shepherd are taken from the Carlops district, about twelve miles from Edinburgh, in which he himself lived. The second scene of the first act of The Gentle Shepherd begins thus:
Jenny. Come, Meg, let’s fa’ to wark upon this green,
This shining day will bleach our linen clean;
The waters clear, the lift’s unclouded blue
Will make them like a lily wet wi’ dew.
Peggy. Gae farer up the burn to Habbie’s Howe,
Where a’ the sweets o’ spring an’ simmer grow:
Between two birks, out o’er a little lin,[40]
The water fa’s an’ maks a singan din:
A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass,
Kisses wi’ easy whirls the bord’ring grass.
We’ll end our washing while the morning’s cool;
An’ when the day grows het, we’ll to the pool,
There wash oursells—’tis healthfu’ now as May,
An sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.
The Gentle Shepherd, the poem on which Allan Ramsay’s reputation is mainly founded, is a pastoral of great beauty and charm. The original MS. was presented by the author to the Countess of Eglinton. It is a folio Vol. of 105 pages, clearly written by his own hand, and has a few comic pen-and-ink sketches added at the beginning or end of the acts, and at the close is this note:
“Finished the 29ᵗʰ of April, 1725, just as eleven o’clock strikes, by Allan Ramsay.
All glory be to God. Amen.”
We will now turn to the seven bits of verse we have been able to collect by the Shepherd of Lonely Bield.
FAIR HABBIE’S HOWE.
(May be sung to the tune “Craigielea,” with first verse as the Chorus).
O Habbie’s Howe! Fair Habbie’s Howe,
Where wimplin’ burnies[41] sweetly row;
Where aft I’ve tasted nature’s joys,
O Habbie’s Howe! Fair Habbie’s Howe.
Roond thee my youthfu’ days I spent,
Amang thy cliffs aft ha’e I speil’d.
Thou theme o’ Ramsay’s pastoral lay;
O hoary, moss-clad Craigy Bield.
The auld oak bower, wi’ ivy twined,
Adorns thy weather-furrowed brow,
A trysting-place where lovers met
When tenting flocks in Habbie’s Howe.
When April’s suns glint through the trees,
The mavis lilts his mellow lay;
And, deep amid thy sombre shades
The owlet screams at close of day.
Amang thy cosy, mossy chinks,
The fern now shows its gentle form
And through thy caves the ousel darts,
To build his nest in early morn.
The scented birk, and glossy beech,
Hang o’er thee for thy simmer veil;
And gowany haughs[42] aroond thee bloom,
Where shepherds tauld love’s tender tale.
Sweet Esk, glide o’er thy rocky path,
And echo through thy classic glen;
Where can we match, in flowery May,
Fair Habbie’s Howe, and Hawthornden?
Alex. Farquharson.
Lanely Bield. Carlops, 1885.
MONK’S BURN.
Doon in Monk’s bonnie verdant glen
A sparklin’ birnie murmurs through
Dark waving pines, ’mang hazel shaws
Decked with the hawk-weed’s golden hue.
It ripples aft ’neath ferny banks
With fragrant birks and briers spread
Till o’er the linn its echo sings,
Deep cradled in a rocky bed.
Here Auld Dame Nature gaily haps
Frae ilka side her crystal streams;
And soaring high o’er leafy bowers,
On hovering wing, the falcon screams.
Aboon Glaud’s yaird the burnie meets
Esk dancing to the morning sun,
An’ glintin’ bonnie through Monk’s Haugh,[43]
Where Pate and Peggie[44] aft hae run;
Noo joined wi’ silv’ry limpid Esk,
Gangs merrily singing tae the sea.
Ilk bird and flower the chorus join
Till wilds and braes resound wi’ glee.
Sing on, ye warblers ’mang the trees,
Bloom fair, ye blue-bells on the plains,
And deck the banks of infant rills
That wander through my native glens.
Alex. Farquharson.
Lanely Bield, 16th January 1886.
THE AULD BLASTED TREE.
The blasted ash tree that langsyne grew its lane,
Whilk Ramsay has pictured in his pawky strain,
Wi’ Bauldy aboon’t on the tap o’ the knowe,
Glowrin’ doon at auld Mause[45] in aneath, spinnin’ tow,
Is noo whommilt doon ower the Back Buckie Brae,
Baith helpless, an’ lifeless, an’ sair crummilt away,
’Mang the bonnie blue speedwell that coortit its beild,
Tho’ its scant tap e’en growin’ but little could yield.
For years—nigh twa hunner—it markit the spot
Whaur Mause the witch dwalt in her lanely wee cot;
But dour Eichty-sax sent a drivin’ snaw blast,
An’ the storied link brak ’tween the present an’ past.
Tho’ in summer ’twas bare, an’ had lang tint its charms,
Scarce a leaf e’er was seen on’t to hap its grey arms,
Yet it clang to the brae,[46] rockit sair, sair, I ween,
Wi’ the loud howlin’ winds that blaw doon the Linn Dean.
An’ mony a squall warsled at the deid ’oor o’ nicht.
When Mause took in her noddle to raise ane for a flicht,
On her auld besom shank, lowin’ at the ae en’,[47]
That she played sic pranks on when she dwalt i’ the glen;
Some alloo she could loup on’t clean ower Carlops toon,
Gawn as heich i’ the air as Dale wi’ his balloon,
Wi’ nocht on but her sark an’ a white squiny much—
A dress greatly in vogue in thae days wi’ a wutch.
But thae fashions, like wutches, hae gane oot o’ date
E’en the black bandit squiny has shared the same fate,
The lint-wheels they span on are just keepit for fun,
Or tae let lasses see the wey hand-cloots were spun.
Feint a trace o’ the carlin’ there’s noo left ava—
Her wee hoosie’s doon, an’ the auld tree an’ a’,
That waggit ayont it for mony a year
Ere anither bit timmer took thocht to grow here.
A. Farquharson.
Lanely Bield (1887?).
EPISTAL TO ALAN REID. EDINBURGH. 1888.
Gin August wiles oot wi’ her smile
Auld Reekie’s sons when freed frae toil,
There ane’ comes here tae bide awhile,
A clever chield;
Ilk place he’s paintit in grand style,
E’en oor wee bield.
He’s craigs an’ castles, cots an’ ha’s,
Lint mills, auld brigs, an’ water fa’s,
Auld stumps o’ trees an’ cowpit wa’s[48]
A treat to see’t.
O’er vera hills he’s gi’en a ca’,
Frae Rullion Green yont ta’ Mentma’;
An’ brawer pictures I ne’er saw,
They’re fair perfection:
They’d even mense[49] a baron’s ha’
That rare collection.
Thanks tae ye, noo, for paintin’ bonnie
The “Lanely Bield,” whaur dwells a cronie,
Wha likes a nicht wi’ ane sae funny
An’ fu’ o’ glee:
I trow Auld Reekie has nae mony
Tae match wi’ thee.
It mak’s me dowie the news I hear
That ye’re no comin’ oot this year;
They tell me that ye’re gaun tae steer
For Lunnon toon:
Losh, man, I’ll miss ye sair I fear
No’ comin’ doon.
But gif I’m spared wi’ health ava,
A holiday, or may be twa,
I’ll tak’ an’ come tae see ye a’,
An’ bide a’ nicht;
An’ faith we’ll sing tae the cock’s craw
At “grey daylicht.”
Alex. Farquharson.
Lanely Bield.
ADDRESS TO THE SUNDEW.
(One of the insect-eating plants).
Wha e’er wad think sae fair a flow’r
Wad be sae pawky[50] as to lure
A midge intae its genty bow’r
O’ bristles bricht,
An’ syne at leisure clean devour
It oot o’ sicht?
Your crimson colour’s sae enticin’
In simmer gin the sun be risin’
I daursay they’ll need nae advisin’
Tae step in ow’r
Tae view an’ find the plan surprisin’
O sic a bow’r.
For oot again they canna wun;
Tho’ wee an’ gleg,[51] they’re fairly done,
I wad they’ll get an awfu’ stun
Gin its deteckit
They’ve death tae face an’ no’ the fun
That they expeckit.
It serves them richt, the wicked crew,
De’il gin the lave were in your mou’!
For oh! they’re ill tae thole the noo
When bitin’ keen,
Dingin’ their beaks intae ane’s broo
Up tae the een!
Ilk foggy[52] sheugh aroond ye scan,
An’ nip as mony as ye can,
’Twill help a wee tae gar ye stan’
The winter weather,
For fient a midge ye’ll pree[53] gin than
Amang the heather.
I kenna hoo ye’ll fend ava
Gin a’ the muirs are clad wi’ snaw.
I doot ye’ll hae tae snooze awa’
Sax months at least,
An’ aiblins then your chance is sma’
Tae get a feast.
But gin I happen ere tae stray
Neist August roond by Jenny’s Brae,
I hope tae see ye fresh an’ gay,
Wee muirlan’ plantie!
Wi’ routh[54] o’ midges then tae slay
Tae keep ye cantie.
A. F.
Lanely Bield.
ADDRESS TAE A MATTHEW HARDIE FIDDLE.
Ae blink at you an’ ane could tell
That ye’re nae foreign factory shell,
But a Scotch mak’, an’, like mysel’,
Made gey and sturdy;
An’ as for tone, there’ll few excel
Ma guid auld Hardie.
Ye’ve been ma hobbie late and sune,
Noo sax an’ twenty years come June,
An’ noo and than I tak’ a tune;
Yet gin I weary.
Altho’ it’s but a kin’ o’ croon,
It keeps ane cheery.
Gin ower ye’re thairms[55] I jink the bow,
Bright notions bizz intae ma pow,
For worl’y cares ye them can cow,
An’ a’ gangs richt,
When ower I stump[56] ‘Nathaniel Gow,’
Or ‘Grey daylicht.’
Wi’ reek an’ rozet noo ye’re black
An scarted sair aboot the back,
But what tho’ tawdry ye’re ne’er slack
Tae lilt a spring[57]
Wi’ ony far fecht fancy crack
They e’er will bring.
In silk-lined cases ower the seas
Scrawled oot an’ in wi’ foreign lees
Aboot their S’s, scrolls, an’ C’s,[58]
An’ eke a name
Wad tak’ a child that’s ta’en degrees
Tae read that same.
An’ nocht but bum-clocks[59] at the best
Wi’ shinin’ coats o’ amber drest;
Och! what o’ that? their tones but test!
Sic dandie dummies!
Lyin’ in braw boxes at their rest,
Row’d up like mummies.
For a’ the sprees ye hae been at,
Haech! nae sic guide-ship e’er ye gat,
But took your chance tho’ it was wat,
Ay, e’en wat snaw
I’ve seen or noo a denty brat[60]
Oot ower ye a’.
I never kent ye tak’ the gee,[61]
But aye sang sweet at ilka spree,
Tho’ I played wild at times a wee
Gin I gat fou.
The fau’t lay wi’ the wee drap bree,[62]
An’ no’ wi’ you.
Sae noo I trust gin I’m nae mair,
Some fiddlin’ frien’ will tak’ guid care,
And see that ye’re nae dauded[63] sair,
When frail an’ auld;
For Hardies noo are unco rare
Sae that I’m tauld.
A. F.
Lanely Bield.
SONNET IN MEMORY OF ELEANORA BROWN.
Gone! noble spirit, from our mortal view,
The still form shaded by the sombre yew
In Mary’s Bower, a spot remote from din,
Save when in flood the shrill gush of the linn
From wailing waves is wafted o’er her tomb,
Retiring soft round her parental home,
Where trained with pious care to womanhood,
Henceforth her motto, Ever doing good;
Gentle with youth, and comforting the old,
In faith and hope to gain the promised Fold.
Alas! the link has snapped in Friendship’s chain.
Kind Ora’s call we’ll sigh for now in vain,
Amid her native flora laid to rest,
The modest speedwell a remembrance on her breast.
A. Farquharson.
Lanely Bield.