THE COUT OF KEELDAR.
NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED—J. LEYDEN.
The eiry blood-hound howled by night,
The streamers[78] flaunted red,
Till broken streaks of flaky light
O'er Keeldar's mountains spread.
The lady sigh'd as Keeldar rose:
"Come tell me, dear love mine,
"Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows,
"Or on the banks of Tyne?"
"The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows,
"By Tyne the primrose pale;
"But now we ride on the Scottish side,
"To hunt in Liddesdale."
"Gin you will ride on the Scottish side,
"Sore must thy Margaret mourn;
"For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's lord,
"And I fear you'll ne'er return.
"The axe he bears, it hacks and tears;
"'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint;
"No armour of knight, tho' ever so wight,
"Can bear its deadly dint.
"No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears;
"Of adderstone the hilt;
"No Tynedale knight had ever such might,
"But his heart-blood was spilt."
"In my plume is seen the holly green,
"With the leaves of the rowan tree;
"And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand,
"Was formed beneath the sea.
"Then, Margaret dear, have thou no fear!
"That bodes no ill to me,
"Though never a knight, by mortal might,
"Could match his gramarye."—
Then forward bound both horse and hound,
And rattle o'er the vale;
As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees,
Drives on the pattering hail.
Behind their course the English fells
In deepening blue retire;
Till soon before them boldly swells
The muir of dun Redswire.
And when they reached the Redswire high,
Soft beam'd the rising sun;
But formless shadows seemed to fly
Along the muir-land dun.
And when he reached the Redswire high,
His bugle Keeldar blew;
And round did float, with clamorous note
And scream, the hoarse curlew.
The next blast that young Keeldar blew,
The wind grew deadly still;
But the sleek fern, with fingery leaves,
Waved wildly o'er the hill.
The third blast that young Keeldar blew,
Still stood the limber fern;
And a wee man, of swarthy hue,
Up started by a cairn.
His russet weeds were brown as heath,
That clothes the upland fell;
And the hair of his head was frizzly red,
As the purple heather bell.
An urchin,[79] clad in prickles red,
Clung cowring to his arm;
The hounds they howl'd, and backward fled,
As struck by Fairy charm.
"Why rises high the stag-hound's cry,
"Where stag-hound ne'er should be?
"Why wakes that horn the silent morn,
"Without the leave of me?"
"Brown dwarf, that o'er the muir-land strays,
"Thy name to Keeldar tell!"—
"The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays
"Beneath the heather bell.
"'Tis sweet, beneath the heather-bell,
"To live in autumn brown;
"And sweet to hear the lav'rocks swell
"Far far from tower and town.
"But woe betide the shrilling horn,
"The chace's surly cheer!
"And ever that hunter is forlorn,
"Whom first at morn I hear."
Says, "Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe,
"In thee we hope nor dread."
But, ere the bugles green could blow,
The Wee Brown Man had fled.
And onward, onward, hound and horse,
Young Keeldar's band have gone;
And soon they wheel, in rapid course,
Around the Keeldar Stone.
Green vervain round its base did creep,
A powerful seed that bore;
And oft, of yore, its channels deep
Were stained with human gore.
And still, when blood-drops, clotted thin,
Hang the grey moss upon,
The spirit murmurs from within,
And shakes the rocking stone.
Around, around, young Keeldar wound,
And called, in scornful tone,
With him to pass the barrier ground,
The Spirit of the Stone.
The rude crag rocked; "I come for death!
"I come to work thy woe!"
And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath,
That murmured from below.
But onward, onward, Keeldar past,
Swift as the winter wind,
When, hovering on the driving blast,
The snow-flakes fall behind.
They passed the muir of berries blae,
The stone cross on the lee;
They reached the green, the bonny brae,
Beneath the birchen tree.
This is the bonny brae, the green,
Yet sacred to the brave,
Where still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Keeldar's grave.
The lonely shepherd loves to mark
The daisy springing fair,
Where weeps the birch of silver bark,
With long dishevelled hair.
The grave is green, and round is spread
The curling lady-fern;
That fatal day the mould was red,
No moss was on the cairn.
And next they passed the chapel there;
The holy ground was by,
Where many a stone is sculptured fair,
To mark where warriors lie.
And here, beside the mountain flood,
A massy castle frown'd,
Since first the Pictish race in blood
The haunted pile did found.
The restless stream its rocky base
Assails with ceaseless din;
And many a troubled spirit strays
The dungeons dark within.
Soon from the lofty tower there hied
A knight across the vale;
"I greet your master well," he cried,
"From Soulis of Liddesdale.
"He heard your bugle's echoing call,
"In his green garden bower;
"And bids you to his festive hall,
"Within his ancient tower."
Young Keeldar called his hunter train;
"For doubtful cheer prepare!
"And, as you open force disdain,
"Of secret guile beware.
"'Twas here for Mangerton's brave lord
"A bloody feast was set;
"Who, weetless, at the festal board,
"The bull's broad frontlet met.
"Then ever, at uncourteous feast,
"Keep every man his brand;
"And, as you mid his friends are placed,
"Range on the better hand.
"And, if the bull's ill-omened head
"Appear to grace the feast,
"Your whingers, with unerring speed,
"Plunge in each neighbour's breast."
In Hermitage they sat at dine,
In pomp and proud array;
And oft they filled the blood-red wine,
While merry minstrels play.
And many a hunting song they sung,
And song of game and glee;
Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,
"Of Scotland's luve and lee."
To wilder measures next they turn:
"The Black Black Bull of Noroway!"
Sudden the tapers cease to burn,
The minstrels cease to play.
Each hunter bold, of Keeldar's train,
Sat an enchanted man;
For cold as ice, through every vein,
The freezing life-blood ran.
Each rigid hand the whinger wrung,
Each gazed with glaring eye;
But Keeldar from the table sprung,
Unharmed by gramarye.
He burst the door; the roofs resound;
With yells the castle rung;
Before him, with a sudden bound,
His favourite blood-hound sprung.
Ere he could pass, the door was barr'd;
And, grating harsh from under,
With creaking, jarring noise, was heard
A sound like distant thunder.
The iron clash, the grinding sound,
Announce the dire sword-mill;
The piteous howlings of the hound
The dreadful dungeon fill.
With breath drawn in, the murderous crew
Stood listening to the yell;
And greater still their wonder grew,
As on their ear it fell.
They listen'd for a human shriek
Amid the jarring sound;
They only heard, in echoes weak,
The murmurs of the hound.
The death-bell rung, and wide were flung
The castle gates amain;
While hurry out the armed rout,
And marshal on the plain.
Ah! ne'er before in border feud
Was seen so dire a fray!
Through glittering lances Keeldar hewed
A red corse-paven way.
His helmet, formed of mermaid sand,
No lethal brand could dint;
No other arms could e'er withstand
The axe of earth-fast flint.
In Keeldar's plume the holly green,
And rowan leaves, nod on,
And vain Lord Soulis's sword was seen,
Though the hilt was adderstone.
Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose,
By Soulis of Liddesdale;
"In vain," he said, "a thousand blows
"Assail the charmed mail.
"In vain by land your arrows glide,
"In vain your faulchions gleam—
"No spell can stay the living tide,
"Or charm the rushing stream."
And now, young Keeldar reached the stream,
Above the foamy lin;
The border lances round him gleam,
And force the warrior in.
The holly floated to the side,
And the leaf of the rowan pale:
Alas! no spell could charm the tide,
Nor the lance of Liddesdale.
Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course,
Along the lily lee;
But home came never hound nor horse,
And never home came he.
Where weeps the birch with branches green,
Without the holy ground,
Between two old gray stones is seen
The warrior's ridgy mound.
And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train,
Within yon castle's wall,
In a deadly sleep must ay remain,
Till the ruined towers down fall.
Each in his hunter's garb array'd,
Each holds his bugle horn;
Their keen hounds at their feet are laid,
That ne'er shall wake the morn.
NOTES
ON
THE COUT OF KEELDAR.
'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint.—P. [287]. v. 2.
An earth-fast stone, or an insulated stone, inclosed in a bed of earth, is supposed to possess peculiar properties. It is frequently applied to sprains and bruises, and used to dissipate swellings; but its blow is reckoned uncommonly severe.
Of adderstone the hilt.—P. [287]. v. 3.
The adderstone, among the Scottish peasantry, is held in almost as high veneration, as, among the Gauls, the ovum anguinum, described by Pliny.—Natural History, l. xxix. c. 3. The name is applied to celts, and other round perforated stones. The vulgar suppose them to be perforated by the stings of adders.
With the leaves of the rowan tree.—P. [287]. v. 4.
The rowan tree, or mountain ash, is still used by the peasantry, to avert the effects of charms and witchcraft. An inferior degree of the same influence is supposed to reside in many evergreens; as the holly, and the bay. With the leaves of the bay, the English and Welch peasants were lately accustomed to adorn their doors at midsummer.—Vide Brand's Vulgar Antiquities.
And shakes the rocking stone.—P. [291]. v. 1.
The rocking stone, commonly reckoned a Druidical monument, has always been held in superstitious veneration by the people. The popular opinion, which supposes them to be inhabited by a spirit, coincides with that of the ancient Icelanders, who worshipped the dæmons, which they believed to inhabit great stones. It is related in the Kristni Saga, chap. 2. that the first Icelandic bishop, by chaunting a hymn over one of these sacred stones, immediately after his arrival in the island, split it, expelled the spirit, and converted its worshippers to Christianity. The herb vervain, revered by the Druids, was also reckoned a powerful charm by the common people; and the author recollects a popular rhyme, supposed to be addressed to a young woman by the devil, who attempted to seduce her in the shape of a handsome young man:
Gin ye wish to be leman mine,
Lay off the St John's wort, and the vervine.
By his repugnance to these sacred plants, his mistress discovered the cloven foot.
Since first the Pictish race in blood.—P. [292]. v. 5.
Castles, remarkable for size, strength, and antiquity, are, by the common people, commonly attributed to the Picts, or Pechs, who are not supposed to have trusted solely to their skill in masonry, in constructing these edifices, but are believed to have bathed the foundation-stone with human blood, in order to propitiate the spirit of the soil. Similar to this is the Gaelic tradition, according to which St Columba is supposed to have been forced to bury St Oran alive, beneath the foundation of his monastery, in order to propitiate the spirits of the soil, who demolished by night what was built during the day.
And, if the bull's ill-omened head, &c.—P. [294]. v. 2.
To present a bull's head before a person at a feast, was, in the ancient turbulent times of Scotland, a common signal for his assassination. Thus, Lindsay of Pitscottie relates in his History, p. 17. that "efter the dinner was endit, once alle the delicate courses taken away, the chancellor (Sir William Crichton) presentit the bullis head befoir the Earle of Douglas, in signe and toaken of condemnation to the death."
Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,
"Of Scotland's luve and lee."—P. [294]. v. 4.
The most ancient Scottish song known is that which is here alluded to, and is thus given by Wintoun, in his Chronykil, Vol. I. p. 401.
Quhen Alysandyr our kyng wes dede,
That Scotland led in luve and le,
Away wes sons of ale and brede,
Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle:
Oure gold wes changyd into lede,
Cryst, borne into virgynyte,
Succour Scotland and remede,
That stad is in perplexyte.
That alluded to in the following verse, is a wild fanciful popular tale of enchantment, termed "The Black Bull of Noroway." The author is inclined to believe it the same story with the romance of the "Three Futtit Dog of Noroway," the title of which is mentioned in the Complaynt of Scotland.
The iron clash, the grinding sound,
Announce the dire sword-mill.—P. [295]. v. 5.
The author is unable to produce any authority, that the execrable machine, the sword-mill, so well known on the continent, was ever employed in Scotland; but he believes the vestiges of something very similar have been discovered in the ruins of old castles.
No spell can stay the living tide.—P. [297]. v. 3.
That no species of magic had any effect over a running stream, was a common opinion among the vulgar, and is alluded to in Burns's admirable tale of Tam o' Shanter.
FOOTNOTES:
[77] Withershins.—German, widdersins. A direction contrary to the course of the sun; from left, namely, to right.
[78] Streamers—Northern lights.
[79] Urchin—Hedge-hog.
[GLENFINLAS,]
OR
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.[80]
BY THE EDITOR.
The simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bathy (a hut, built for the purpose of hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women.
Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery.
This ballad first appeared in the Tales of Wonder.
GLENFINLAS,
OR
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.
"For them the viewless forms of air obey,
"Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair;
"They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
"And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare,
"To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare."[81]
"O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'![82]
"The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
"And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
"We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!
O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never feared a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow!
Well can the Saxon widows tell,
How, on the Teith's resounding shore,
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.
But o'er his hills, on festal day,
How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree;
While youths and maids the light strathspey
So nimbly danced with Highland glee.
Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell,
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;
But now the loud lament we swell,
O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!
From distant isles a Chieftain came,
The joys of Ronald's halls to find,
And chase with him the dark-brown game,
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.
'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle
The seer's prophetic spirit found,
As, with a minstrel's fire the while,
He waked his harp's harmonious sound.
Full many a spell to him was known,
Which wandering spirits shrink to hear;
And many a lay of potent tone,
Was never meant for mortal ear.
For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,
High converse with the dead they hold,
And oft espy the fated shroud,
That shall the future corpse enfold.
O so it fell, that on a day,
To rouse the red deer from their den,
The chiefs have ta'en their distant way,
And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen.
No vassals wait their sports to aid,
To watch their safety, deck their board?
Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.
Three summer days, through brake and dell,
Their whistling shafts successful flew;
And still, when dewy evening fell,
The quarry to their hut they drew.
In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook
The solitary cabin stood,
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,
Which murmurs through that lonely wood.
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,
When three successive days had flown;
And summer mist in dewy balm
Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone.
The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,
Afar her dubious radiance shed,
Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,
And resting on Benledi's head.
Now in their hut, in social guise,
Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy;
And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.
—"What lack we here to crown our bliss,
"While thus the pulse of joy beats high?
"What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,
"Her panting breath, and melting eye?
"To chase the deer of yonder shades,
"This morning left their father's pile
"The fairest of our mountain maids,
"The daughters of the proud Glengyle.
"Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart,
"And dropp'd the tear, and heav'd the sigh;
"But vain the lover's wily art,
"Beneath a sister's watchful eye.
"But thou may'st teach that guardian fair,
"While far with Mary I am flown,
"Of other hearts to cease her care,
"And find it hard to guard her own.
"Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see
"The lovely Flora of Glengyle,
"Unmindful of her charge and me,
"Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile.
"Or, if she chuse a melting tale,
"All underneath the greenwood bough,
"Will good St Oran's rule prevail,
"Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?"—
—"Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,
"No more on me shall rapture rise,
"Responsive to the panting breath,
"Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.
"E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe,
"Where sunk my hopes of love and fame,
"I bade my harp's wild wailings flow,
"On me the Seer's sad spirit came.
"The last dread curse of angry heaven,
"With ghastly sights and sounds of woe,
"To dash each glimpse of joy, was given—
"The gift, the future ill to know.
"The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,
"So gaily part from Oban's bay,
"My eye beheld her dash'd and torn,
"Far on the rocky Colonsay.
"Thy Fergus too—thy sister's son,
"Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power,
"As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe,
"He left the skirts of huge Benmore.
"Thou only saw'st their tartans[83] wave,
"As down Benvoirlich's side they wound,
"Heard'st but the pibroch[84], answering brave
"To many a target clanking round.
"I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears,
"I saw the wound his bosom bore,
"When on the serried Saxon spears
"He pour'd his clan's resistless roar.
"And thou, who bidst me think of bliss,
"And bidst my heart awake to glee,
"And court, like thee, the wanton kiss—
"That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee!
"I see the death damps chill thy brow;
"I hear thy Warning Spirit cry;
"The corpse-lights dance—they're gone, and now....
"No more is given to gifted eye!"——
----"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,
"Sad prophet of the evil hour!
"Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,
"Because to-morrow's storm may lour?
"Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe,
"Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear;
"His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,
"Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear.
"E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,
"My Mary's buskins brush the dew;"
He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,
But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew.
Within an hour return'd each hound;
In rush'd the rouzers of the deer;
They howl'd in melancholy sound,
Then closely couch beside the seer.
No Ronald yet; though midnight came,
And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams,
As, bending o'er the dying flame,
He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.
Sudden the hounds erect their ears,
And sudden cease their moaning howl;
Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears
By shivering limbs, and stifled growl.
Untouch'd, the harp began to ring,
As softly, slowly, oped the door;
And shook responsive every string,
As light a footstep press'd the floor.
And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light,
Close by the minstrel's side was seen
An huntress maid, in beauty bright,
All dropping wet her robes of green.
All dropping wet her garments seem;
Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare,
As, bending o'er the dying gleam,
She wrung the moisture from her hair.
With maiden blush she softly said,
"O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen,
"In deep Glenfinlas' moon-light glade,
"A lovely maid in vest of green:
"With her a chief in Highland pride;
"His shoulders bear the hunter's bow,
"The mountain dirk adorns his side,
"Far on the wind his tartans flow?"
"And who art thou? and who are they?"
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied:
"And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,
"Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?"
"Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,
"Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,
"Our father's towers o'erhang her side,
"The castle of the bold Glengyle.
"To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer,
"Our woodland course this morn we bore,
"And haply met, while wandering here,
"The son of great Macgillianore.
"O aid me, then, to seek the pair,
"Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost;
"Alone, I dare not venture there,
"Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost."
"Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there;
"Then, first, my own sad vow to keep,
"Here will I pour my midnight prayer,
"Which still must rise when mortals sleep."
"O first, for pity's gentle sake,
"Guide a lone wanderer on her way!
"For I must cross the haunted brake,
"And reach my father's towers ere day."
"First, three times tell each Ave-bead,
"And thrice a Pater-noster say;
"Then kiss with me the holy reed;
"So shall we safely wind our way."
"O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!
"Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow,
"And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,
"Which best befits thy sullen vow.
"Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire,
"Thy heart was froze to love and joy,
"When gaily rung thy raptured lyre,
"To wanton Morna's melting eye."
Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame,
And high his sable locks arose,
And quick his colour went and came,
As fear and rage alternate rose.
"And thou! when by the blazing oak
"I lay, to her and love resign'd,
"Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,
"Or sailed ye on the midnight wind!
"Not thine a race of mortal blood,
"Nor old Glengyle's pretended line;
"Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood,
"Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine."
He mutter'd thrice St Oran's rhyme,
And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer;
Then turn'd him to the eastern clime,
And sternly shook his coal-black hair.
And, bending o'er his harp, he flung
His wildest witch-notes on the wind;
And loud, and high, and strange, they rung,
As many a magic change they find.
Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form,
Till to the roof her stature grew;
Then, mingling with the rising storm,
With one wild yell, away she flew.
Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear:
The slender hut in fragments flew;
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair
Was waved by wind, or wet by dew.
Wild mingling with the howling gale,
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise;
High o'er the minstrel's head they sail,
And die amid the northern skies.
The voice of thunder shook the wood,
As ceased the more than mortal yell;
And, spattering foul, a shower of blood
Upon the hissing firebrands fell.
Next, dropp'd from high a mangled arm;
The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade:
And last, the life-blood streaming warm,
Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.
Oft o'er that head, in battling field,
Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore;
That arm the broad claymore could wield,
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.
Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!
Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!
There never son of Albin's hills
Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen!
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that sheltering den,
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet
The wayward Ladies of the Glen.
And we—behind the chieftain's shield,
No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field—
And we the loud lament must swell.
O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!
The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!
NOTES
ON
GLENFINLAS.
Well can the Saxon widows tell.—P. [306]. v. 2.
The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied by the Highlanders to their low-country neighbours.
How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree.—P. [306]. v. 3.
The fires lighted by the Highlanders on the first of May, in compliance with a custom derived from the Pagan times, are termed, The Beltane-Tree. It is a festival celebrated with various superstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales.
The seer's prophetic spirit found, &c.—P. [307]. v. 1.
I can only describe the second sight, by adopting Dr Johnson's definition, who calls it "An impression, either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant and future are perceived and seen as if they were present." To which I would only add, that the spectral appearances, thus presented, usually presage misfortune; that the faculty is painful to those who suppose they possess it; and that they usually acquire it, while themselves under the pressure of melancholy.
Will good St Oran's rule prevail.—P. [310]. v. 1.
St Oran was a friend and follower of St Columba, and was buried in Icolmkill. His pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. According to the legend, he consented to be buried alive, in order to propitiate certain dæmons of the soil, who obstructed the attempts of Columba to build a chapel. Columba caused the body of his friend to be dug up, after three days had elapsed; when Oran, to the horror and scandal of the assistants, declared, that there was neither a God, a judgment, nor a future state! He had no time to make further discoveries, for Columba caused the earth once more to be shovelled over him with the utmost dispatch. The chapel, however, and the cemetery, was called Reilig Ouran; and, in memory of his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted to pay her devotions, or be buried, in that place. This is the rule alluded to in the poem.
And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer.—P. [316]. v. 5.
St Fillan has given his name to many chapels, holy fountains, &c. in Scotland. He was, according to Camerarius, an abbot of Pittenweem, in Fife; from which situation he retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of Glenurchy, A.D. 649. While engaged in transcribing the Scriptures, his left hand was observed to send forth such a splendour, as to afford light to that with which he wrote; a miracle which saved many candles to the convent, as St Fillan used to spend whole nights in that exercise. The 9th of January was dedicated to this saint, who gave his name to Kilfillan, in Renfrew, and St Phillans, or Forgend, in Fife. Lesley, lib. 7., tells us, that Robert the Bruce was possessed of Fillan's miraculous and luminous arm, which he inclosed in a silver shrine, and had it carried at the head of his army. Previous to the battle of Bannockburn, the king's chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted the relique, and deposited it in some place of security, lest it should fall into the hands of the English. But, lo! while Robert was addressing his prayers to the empty casket, it was observed to open and shut suddenly; and, on inspection, the saint was found to have himself deposited his arm in the shrine, as an assurance of victory. Such is the tale of Lesley. But though Bruce little needed that the arm of St Fillan should assist his own, he dedicated to him, in gratitude, a priory at Killin, upon Loch Tay.
In the Scots Magazine for July 1802, (a national periodical publication, which has lately revived with considerable energy,) there is a copy of a very curious crown grant, dated 11th July, 1487, by which James III. confirms to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of Strathfillan, in Perthshire, the peaceable exercise and enjoyment of a relique of St Fillan, called the Quegrich, which he, and his predecessors, are said to have possessed since the days of Robert Bruce. As the Quegrich was used to cure diseases, this document is, probably, the most ancient patent ever granted for a quack medicine. The ingenious correspondent, by whom it is furnished, further observes, that additional particulars, concerning St Fillan, are to be found in Ballenden's Boece, Book 4. folio ccxiii., and in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, 1772, pp. 11. 15.
FOOTNOTES:
[80] Coronach is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan.
[81] [Transcriber: Citation from a poem by William Collins]
[82] O hone a rie' signifies—"Alas for the prince, or chief."
[83] Tartans—The full Highland dress, made of the chequered stuff so termed.
[84] Pibroch—A piece of martial music, adapted to the Highland bag-pipe.
[THE MERMAID.]
J. LEYDEN.
The following poem is founded upon a Gaelic traditional ballad, called Macphail of Colonsay, and the Mermaid of Corrivrekin. The dangerous gulf of Corrivrekin lies between the islands of Jura and Scarba, and the superstition of the islanders has tenanted its shelves and eddies with all the fabulous monsters and dæmons of the ocean. Among these, according to a universal tradition, the Mermaid is the most remarkable. In her dwelling, and in her appearance, the mermaid of the northern nations resembles the syren of the ancients. The appendages of a comb and mirror are probably of Celtic invention.
The Gaelic story bears, that Macphail of Colonsay was carried off by a mermaid, while passing the gulf above mentioned: that they resided together, in a grotto beneath the sea, for several years, during which time she bore him five children: but, finally, he tired of her society, and, having prevailed upon her to carry him near the shore of Colonsay, he escaped to land.
The inhabitants of the Isle of Man have a number of such stories, which may be found in Waldron. One bears, that a very beautiful mermaid fell in love with a young shepherd, who kept his flocks beside a creek, much frequented by these marine people. She frequently caressed him, and brought him presents of coral, fine pearls, and every valuable production of the ocean. Once upon a time, as she threw her arms eagerly round him, he suspected her of a design to draw him into the sea, and, struggling hard, disengaged himself from her embrace, and ran away. But the mermaid resented either the suspicion, or the disappointment, so highly, that she threw a stone after him, and flung herself into the sea, whence she never returned. The youth, though but slightly struck with the pebble, felt, from that moment, the most excruciating agony, and died at the end of seven days.—Waldron's Works, p. 176.
Another tradition of the same island affirms, that one of these amphibious damsels was caught in a net, and brought to land, by some fishers, who had spread a snare for the denizens of the ocean. She was shaped like the most beautiful female down to the waist, but below trailed a voluminous fish's tail, with spreading fins. As she would neither eat nor speak, (though they knew she had the power of language), they became apprehensive that the island would be visited with some strange calamity, if she should die for want of food; and therefore, on the third night, they left the door open, that she might escape. Accordingly, she did not fail to embrace the opportunity; but, gliding with incredible swiftness to the sea-side, she plunged herself into the waters, and was welcomed by a number of her own species, who were heard to enquire, what she had seen among the natives of the earth; "Nothing," she answered, "wonderful, except that they were silly enough to throw away the water in which they had boiled their eggs."
Collins, in his notes upon the line,
"Mona, long hid from those who sail the main,"
explains it, by a similar Celtic tradition. It seems, a mermaid had become so much charmed with a young man, who walked upon the beach, that she made love to him; and, being rejected with scorn, she excited, by enchantment, a mist, which long concealed the island from all navigators.
I must mention another Mankish tradition, because, being derived from the common source of Celtic mythology, they appear the most natural illustrations of the Hebridean tale. About fifty years before Waldron went to reside in Man (for there were living witnesses of the legend, when he was upon the island), a project was undertaken, to fish treasures up from the deep, by means of a diving-bell. A venturous fellow, accordingly, descended, and kept pulling for more rope, till all they had on board was expended. This must have been no small quantity, for a skilful mathematician, who was on board, judging from the proportion of line let down, declared, that the adventurer must have descended at least double the number of leagues which the moon is computed to be distant from the earth. At such a depth, wonders might be expected, and wonderful was the account given by the adventurer, when drawn up to the air.
"After," said he, "I had passed the region of fishes, I descended into a pure element, clear as the air in the serenest and most unclouded day, through which, as I passed, I saw the bottom of the watery world, paved with coral, and a shining kind of pebbles, which glittered like the sun-beams, reflected on a glass. I longed to tread the delightful paths, and never felt more exquisite delight, than when the machine, I was inclosed in, grazed upon it.
"On looking through the little windows of my prison, I saw large streets and squares on every side, ornamented with huge pyramids of crystal, not inferior in brightness to the finest diamonds; and the most beautiful building, not of stone, nor brick, but of mother-of-pearl, and embossed in various figures, with shells of all colours. The passage, which led to one of these magnificent apartments, being open, I endeavoured, with my whole strength, to move my enclosure towards it; which I did, though with great difficulty, and very slowly. At last, however, I got entrance into a very spacious room, in the midst of which stood a large amber table, with several chairs round, of the same. The floor of it was composed of rough diamonds, topazes, emeralds, rubies, and pearls. Here I doubted not but to make my voyage as profitable as it was pleasant; for, could I have brought with me but a few of these, they would have been of more value than all we could hope for in a thousand wrecks; but they were so closely wedged in, and so strongly cemented by time, that they were not to be unfastened. I saw several chains, carcanets, and rings, of all manner of precious stones, finely cut, and set after our manner; which I suppose had been the prize of the winds and waves: these were hanging loosely on the jasper walls, by strings made of rushes, which I might easily have taken down; but, as I had edged myself within half a foot reach of them, I was unfortunately drawn back through your want of line. In my return, I saw several comely mermen, and beautiful mermaids, the inhabitants of this blissful realm, swiftly descending towards it; but they seemed frighted at my appearance, and glided at a distance from me, taking me, no doubt, for some monstrous and new-created species."—Waldron, ibidem.
It would be very easy to enlarge this introduction, by quoting a variety of authors, concerning the supposed existence of these marine people. The reader may consult the Telliamed of M. Maillet, who, in support of the Neptunist system of geology, has collected a variety of legends, respecting mermen and mermaids, p. 230, et sequen. Much information may also be derived from Pontoppidan's Natural History of Norway, who fails not to people her seas with this amphibious race.[85] An older authority is to be found in the Kongs skugg-sio, or Royal Mirror, written, as it is believed, about 1170. The mermen, there mentioned, are termed hafstrambur (sea-giants), and are said to have the upper parts resembling the human race; but the author, with becoming diffidence, declines to state, positively, whether they are equipped with a dolphin's tail. The female monster is called Mar-Gyga (sea-giantess), and is averred, certainly, to drag a fish's train. She appears, generally, in the act of devouring fish, which she has caught. According to the apparent voracity of her appetite, the sailors pretended to guess what chance they had of saving their lives in the tempests, which always followed her appearance.—Speculum Regale, 1768, p. 166.
Mermaids were sometimes supposed to be possessed of supernatural powers. Resenius, in his life of Frederick II., gives us an account of a syren, who not only prophesied future events, but, as might have been expected from the element in which she dwelt, preached vehemently against the sin of drunkenness.
The mermaid of Corrivrekin possessed the power of occasionally resigning her scaly train; and the Celtic tradition bears, that when, from choice or necessity, she was invested with that appendage, her manners were more stern and savage than when her form was entirely human. Of course, she warned her lover not to come into her presence, when she was thus transformed. This belief is alluded to in the following ballad.
The beauty of the syrens is celebrated in the old romances of chivalry. Doolin, upon beholding, for the first time in his life, a beautiful female, exclaims, "Par sainte Marie, si belle creature ne vis je oncque en ma vie! Je crois que c'est un ange du ciel, ou une seraine de mer; Je crois que homme n'engendra oncque si belle creature."—La Fleur de Battailles.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL,
WITH
THE MERMAID.
To brighter charms depart, my simple lay,
Than graced of old the maid of Colonsay,
When her fond lover, lessening from her view,
With eyes reverted, o'er the surge withdrew!
But, happier still, should lovely Campbell sing
Thy plaintive numbers to the trembling string,
The mermaid's melting strains would yield to thee,
Though poured diffusive o'er the silver sea.
Go boldly forth—but ah! the listening throng,
Rapt by the syren, would forget the song!
Lo! while they pause, nor dare to gaze around,
Afraid to break the soft enchanting sound,
While swells to sympathy each fluttering heart,
'Tis not the poet's, but the syren's art.
Go forth, devoid of fear, my simple lay!
First heard, returning from Iona's bay,
When round our bark the shades of evening drew,
And broken slumbers prest our weary crew;
While round the prow the sea-fire, flashing bright,
Shed a strange lustre o'er the waste of night;
While harsh and dismal screamed the diving gull,
Round the dark rocks that wall the coast of Mull;
As through black reefs we held our venturous way,
I caught the wild traditionary lay.
A wreath, no more in black Iona's isle
To bloom—but graced by high-born Beauty's smile.