That hovers ’twixt the day and night,
Dazzling alternately and dim.
When the Harringtons established themselves here the wolf and the wild boar roamed at large through the thick forests of Cartmel, and among the legends and scraps of family history that have floated down through successive generations is the story that on the eminence to the north of Wraysholme the last wild boar was hunted down; from which circumstance the hill has ever since borne the name of Boar Bank. It is said, too, that, far back in the mist of ages, it was from Wraysholme Tower a gallant company rode forth to hunt the last wolf “in England’s spacious realm;” and that, after a long and weary chase, the savage beast was tracked to its lair on the wooded heights of Humphrey Head, and there transfixed by the spear of a Harrington. Tradition has been well described as the nursing-mother of the Muses, and these bits of legendary lore, which have been deeply rooted in the memories, and for many a generation have delighted the firesides, of the Cartmel cottagers, have inspired the pen of a local poet, who has told the story of “The Last Wolf” in spirit-stirring verse. This interesting ballad, though varying considerably from the current tradition, is yet a valuable contribution to our Palatine anthology. Its great length—seventy-five verses—prevents our giving it entire, but the following passages will give an idea of the salient features of the story:—
The sun hath set on Wraysholme’s Tower,
And o’er broad Morecambe Bay;
The moon from out her eastern bower
Pursues the track of day.
On Wraysholme’s grey and massive walls,
On rocky Humphrey Head,
On wood and field her silver falls,