In vain did Ramsay remonstrate with Clavers. He boasted his Orders in Council; defied all remonstrance; ordered his men to charge; and, firing on the crowd right and left, made his escape to the hills. Providentially no one was even hurt; and it was strongly suspected that, knowing he had already rather exceeded his commission, he had ordered the dragoons to charge without ball-cartridge. After this affair was over, the district was freed, for a time, from the hateful presence of the King's troops, as they were known to be occupied on a similar office in Annandale, and the higher district of Nithsdale.
Thomas Harkness being duly informed of his safety, came forth from his hiding, which was nearly covered over by spret and long heather, and was welcomed (though not without apprehension) to the manager's dwelling, which stood then, where the manager's house still stands, in the midst of the town, and was and still is surrounded by trees—the only ones to be seen for many miles around. The old woman, Marion Morrison, with her bonny May, were likewise taken home to the same hospitable dwelling, till some arrangement could be made, with the generous and noble-minded family of Hopetoun, for their future accommodation. Mr Robert Ramsay was a young, unmarried man of family—as his name implies—and he felt the impropriety of keeping a young, unmarried woman under his roof. Whether it was that he and May understood each other before this time, or that their unexpected juxtaposition, now accelerated the consummation, I know not; but so it was, that, in a few days, preparations were agoing forward of a somewhat demonstrative nature. A fine black-faced sheep was killed; ale barrels were seen travelling up Glengonner; four dozen of good port wine were placed on the sideboard, whilst a cask of strong Nantz brandy slept quietly beneath. On Sabbath, the names of Robert Ramsay and May Douglas, both of this parish, were read aloud by the precentor, schoolmaster, and manager's clerk; and the Friday following was fixed upon for the marriage.
Any festivity amongst these congregated children of the mountains, is anticipated by them with peculiar relish and excitement. Miles beneath the ground, the voice of joy and jest, and colloquy, penetrated; and, whilst the jumper penetrated the rock, and the hammer fell ponderous and frequent, the tongue was not idle, and the heart was not sad. Every one spoke well of the bride; most of them knew her father and esteemed him. Old Marion, to be sure, was a quisquis character; but then, she was now to be the manager's stepmother, honest man; and it was deemed that, if ever old Marion had dealt with the old gentleman, she would now prefer the young one. The long-looked-for, wished-for day, at last arrived, and the nonconforming minister of the parish of Crawford—the godly Mr Austin—was brought from his retreat, at the town of Douglas, to perform the marriage ceremony. All was gay as a marriage bell; the men had a full holiday, by order of Lord Hopetoun, with full wages, on the occasion. They, with their wives and daughters, were all arranged on the green plot in front of the manager's house; whilst viands, of a most substantial nature, were served out to them in abundance—amongst which, sheep-heads, haggises, and Irish stews, were not forgotten. The tankards circulated; the wine was handed round in queghs and skuties, or timber shells; and brandy followed in abundance. The heart of the poor labourer was gladdened, whilst, glowing as it did with gratitude and kindly feeling, it was made better; and the young and handsome couple walked round amongst the people with pride and honest delight. One mother was sad, because her son lay still in a bed of sickness. He had fallen when wounded (as was before mentioned) on the hill, and having been shot through the knee-joint, his wound was long of healing—still there was a certainty that, though lame for life, he would not die of the injury, and the mother ventured out, though with a clouded aspect. A Highland bagpiper made his appearance, (probably from a previous arrangement,) and, having taken his seat and his draught—
"He screwed his pipes, and gart them skirl,
Till glen and mountain a' did dirl."
The lads sprung to their feet—
"Wi' wooer babs
At their blue-bonnet lugs."
"The lasses—bonny witches—
Were a' dressed up in aprons clean,
And braw white Sunday mutches."
So to it they went; and round and round the green they reeled it, and country-danced it, and shouted it, and flapped it, and jumped it—and
"Haverel Jean her hanging stocking ties,
And to the dance with maddening fury flies,"
till nature could hold out no longer, and wearied limbs were stretched out full length on the soft greensward. In the meantime, in came two pilgrims from the Holy Land, and they spoke of Eastern lands and Eastern manners; and, being wearied with travel, they behoved to partake of the cheer. Next to them succeeded Auld Glenae, tied all round with straw ropes, and making love to every bonny lassie present, clapping the old women on the back, and kissing the young lassies. Even Thomas Harkness has laid aside, for a season, his nonconformity, and absolutely foots it away with old Marion Morrison. Laughter goes round in peals, and punch in pailfuls; and the jolly god shakes his sides as he contemplates his happy worshippers. Never did Mount Nysa resound to more genuine revelment. But whom have we here? A horseman—a dragoon! Let me look through the trees. Oh, my God! we are surrounded by a troop of horse, and all means of resistance of escape is cut off from us! Clavers advances very coolly into the midst of the festive circle; and, making his obeisance in the most polite manner, takes up a full tankard, and drinks to the health of the new-married couple—nay, nothing will serve him but he must dance a reel with the bride, who, though reluctant, is forced to comply. Then, turning round, in the most playful manner, to Mr Robert Ramsay—