The sliding joy, the gladness short,
The perjured love, the false comfort,
The seveir abade (delay), the slightful train (snare),
For to consider is ane pain.
The sugared mouths, with minds therefra,
The figured speech, with faces tway;
The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain,
For to consider is ane pain.
In another poem he takes a more cheerful view of life.
Be merry, man, and tak' not sair in mind
The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow;
To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,
And with thy neighbors gladly lend and borrow,
His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow, &c.
From Dunfermline, we cross the country in the direction of Stirling, and of course linger to view the famous battle-ground of Bannockburn, immortalized by the prowess of Scotland, and the poetry of Burns.
But we approach Stirling Castle, one of the oldest and most imposing strongholds in the country. How often have these old rocks rung again, "with blast of bugle free;" and how frequently has the ground at its base been soaked with human blood! The castle stands on a huge ledge of basaltic rock, rising rapidly from the plain, and overlooking the country far and near, and backed by the rising ground on which the city is built. Ascending to the summit we pass round it, by a narrow pathway cut in the sides of the mountain, and thence enjoy the most extensive and delightful views. How charmingly the Links of the Forth, as the serpentine windings of the river are called, adorn the rich vale, in which they love to linger, as if loth to depart. To the north and east are the Ochil hills, "vestured" in blue, and looking down upon fertile fields, umbrageous woods, and stately mansions. On the west lies the vale of Menteith, and far off the Highland mountains, lost in the mist. On another side are the pastoral hills of Campsie, and underneath our eye the town of Stirling, the Abbey Craig, and the ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey. The Forth, with "isles of emerald," and white sails skimming its glassy surface, expands into the German Ocean; and Edinburgh Castle, just descried amid the haze, crowns the distant landscape. Stirling was a favorite residence of the Stuarts; but the castle is now employed only as a barracks for soldiery.
Leaving the castle we pass into the city, by High Street, adorned with several palaces of the old nobility, antique-looking edifices, of a solid structure. Here was the palace of the Regent, Earl of Mar, whose descendants were the keepers of Stirling Castle. Here too was the palace of Sir William Alexander, "the philosophical poet" of the court of James the Sixth, and tutor to Charles the First, who created him Earl of Stirling. But an object of still greater interest is the tower where George Buchanan, the historian of Scotland, and one of the first scholars of his age, lived and wrote. He was tutor to James the Sixth of Scotland, and First of England. He wrote a paraphrase of the Psalms in elegant Latin verse, of which he was a perfect master. Most of this work was composed in a monastery in Portugal, to which he had been confined by the Inquisition about the year 1550. It was continued in France, and finished in Scotland. His prose works, particularly his history of Scotland, are characterized by clearness and research. His celebrated contemporary, Dr. Arthur Johnston, was equally distinguished for the variety of his attainments, and his perfect command of the Latin tongue; so that the one has been called the Scottish Virgil, and the other the Scottish Ovid. The Latin version of the Psalms by Buchanan is still used in some of the Scottish schools. It is elegant and faithful, but somewhat formal and paraphrastic.
There are many objects of interest in Stirling, and the scenery around is rich and beautiful, and, moreover, associated in every part, with recollections of the olden time; but we cannot linger here. The stage-coach is waiting to take us to Falkirk, a town of great antiquity, having been the site of one of those military stations on the wall made by the Romans at their invasion of the country, known by the name of the Forts of Agricola. It was also the scene of one or two famous battles in the days of Wallace and Bruce. Being the principal town in the midst of a rich agricultural country, it is now the scene of immense fairs or trysts, as they are called, to which large droves of Highland cattle are brought annually for sale, and where an immense amount of business is transacted. But there is nothing here of sufficient interest to detain us; so we proceed in the rail-cars to Edinburgh. In passing, we get a glimpse of the castle and palace of Linlithgow; in the twefth century one of the most important burghs in Scotland, the residence of several of the kings of Scotland, and the birth-place of Queen Mary.
"Of all the palaces so fair
Built for the royal dwelling
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling.
And in its park, in genial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
How blythe the blackbird's lay,
The wild buck bells from thorny brake
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see a scene so gay."—Marmion.
When Robert Bruce was lying in Torwood Castle, not far from Falkirk, a man by the name of Binnoch, a farmer in the neighborhood, who supplied the garrison at Linlithgow, then in possession of the English king, proposed to Bruce to take possession of the garrison by a stratagem, which he accomplished. This incident has been wrought into a lively form by Wilson, not Professor Wilson, but John Mackie Wilson, author of the Border Tales, of whom I shall have something to say by and by. The following is his account of the matter, somewhat condensed.