Tales of the Covenanters

by Ellen Emma Guthrie

Mr. Anderson, in obedience to his wife's request, proceeded to the drawer, and in a few seconds placed in her hands the wished-for article.

After fumbling for a short space of time amongst its varied contents, Mrs. Anderson succeeded in fishing out, from its mysterious depths, a sheet of paper carefully folded up, which she opened and placed in my hands, saying, "there now, that was written by a friend of mine while studying at the College of Edinburgh." Glancing my eyes over the verses, I perceived that they bore immediate reference to the legend Mrs. A. had just been narrating, and so wrote them down, as an appropriate finish to the Legend of Culzean:—

THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN.

Around Culzean Castle the wild winds did howl,

And the trees bent like leaves to the blast;

Whilst the heavens looked black with an angry scowl,

The wild clouds were careering on fast.

Dark, dark was that night, and yet darker the hour

When Culzean's lord did yield up his breath;

You'd have thought that the fiends of hell had power

To preside o'er the wizard's death!

The thunder roll'd loud, while the lightning flashed,

And by tempest the Castle was shook;

Wild shrieks of despair echo'd loud in the blast,

And from fear none dared upward to look.

The dying man toss'd, and oft did he turn,

But for him was no rest or sleep;

Fierce flames of remorse in his breast did burn,

And his curses were loud and deep.

When reverend fathers sought to cheer,

And smooth down the way to heaven,

He mocked them all with a taunt and jeer;

They from the room were driven.

He died—though for him the black banner wav'd

And nodded the sable plume;

By no rich nor poor was a blessing craved

For him who that night met his doom.

* * * * *

The wild winds rag'd and the lightnings flashed,

While the sea ran mountains high;

And the good ship's crew all stood aghast

As they gaz'd on the stormy sky.

"Haste haste, my men," the bold Captain cried,

"Haste, haste! make no delay!

We'll bravely steer through the foaming tide,

And trust in God our stay."

The death lights do burn this night in Culzean,

The old lord is dead at last;

And the powers of darkness are there I ween.

Careering on the blast!

With a crash the thunder o'er them peal'd,

And its harsh and sullen roar;

Though to fear the sailors hearts were steel'd,

Caus'd them tremble more and more.

"A boat! a boat!" the steersman cried,

"I see by the flashes bright."

"NO BOAT," the Captain quick replied,

"Could live on this awful night!"

Then the heavens burst, and a flood of light

Lit up all with its ghastly glare;

And the ship's crew gaz'd on a fearful sight,

For a funeral train was there!

Four coal-black horses drew each coach,

And they pranced upon the sea;

As each driver caus'd them swift approach,

What a ghastly look had he!

Soon as they reach'd the vessel's side,

That awful train funereal,

"FROM WHENCE—to where?" the Captain cried

"From H—ll to Culzean's burial!"

PEDEN'S STONE.

Having been informed that a stone, familiarly known throughout the country as "Peden's Stone," from the fact that that prime favourite of the Scottish peasantry used there to delight his hearers with his eloquence, was still to be seen on the moor, I determined upon paying a visit to this sequestered spot. It was on a lovely morning in the month of September that I started on my expedition. The sun was shining brightly, and the air was of that exhilarating nature which blends the softness of summer with the least possible tinge of autumn coolness. The Robin red-breast, sole remaining songster of the grove, poured its gushing notes of melody from hedge-row and tree, while, with each motion of the breeze, the now yellow leaves fell trembling on my path.

The reapers, in many places, were yet busy in the fields—the harvest being generally late in this part of Scotland—and their merry bursts of laughter sounded gaily from amid the fields of waving corn. My way again lay through H—— village, near the entrance of which, on precisely the same spot as formerly, stood the previously mentioned pleasant-looking dame, but not alone. Two little olive branches clung for protection to the parent stem, in a manner beautiful to witness. I could not resist a smile as my quondam acquaintance came forward with outstretched hand, exclaiming, while a broad laugh sat upon her honest features, "Losh me, isn't it funny we twa should always foregather on the same bit?"

"Indeed it is!" was the reply.

"And you are still gaun about here?"

"Yes; and picking up all the information I can get about the Covenanters."

"Oh, mam!" was the pathetic response, "had my brother only been living!—but that's by; eh sirs me, but that makes an unco difference wi' us a'! And where may ye be gaun the day?"