(For the Mirror.)
"Good-morrowe, good fellow,—
Methinks, by this bowe thou beares in thy hand
A good archere thou shouldst bee."
Old Ballad.
I feel happy that it is in my power to present a drawing, made expressly for the purpose, of the picturesque costume worn by the Royal Company of Archers, or King's Body Guard of Scotland. This is described in Stark's "Picture of Edinburgh" thus:—"Their uniform is 42nd tartan, with green velvet collar and cuffs, and a Highland bonnet, with feathers; on the front of the bonnet is the cross of St. Andrew, and a gold arrow on the collar of the jacket." There is a something in the very idea of an archer, and in the name of Robin Hood, particularly charming to most bosoms, coming as they do to us fraught with all delicious associations; the wild, free forest life, the sweet pastime, the adventures of bold outlaws amid the heaven of sylvan scenery, and the national renown of British bowmen which mingles with the records of our chivalry in history and romance; while the revival of archery in England of late years, as an elegant amusement, sufficiently proves that the high feeling which seems mysteriously to blend a present age with one long since gone by, is not totally extinct. Shall I venture to assert, that for this we are indebted to the charmed light cast around a noble and ancient pastime by the antiquary, poet, and romance-writer of modern times? But to return, the Scottish archers were first formed into a company and obtained a charter, granting them great privileges, under the reign of queen Anne, for which they were to pay to the crown, annually, a pair of barbed arrows. One of these allowances was, that they might meet and go forth under their officer's conduct, in military form, in manner of weapon-showing, as often as they should think convenient. "But they have made no public parade since 1743,"[3] owing, probably, to the state of parties in Edinburgh, for their attachment to the Stuart family was well understood, and falling under the suspicion of the British government after the rebellion of 1745, they were watched, "and spies appointed to frequent their company." The company possess a house built by themselves, termed Archers' Hall. All their business is transacted by a president and six counsellors, who are nominated by the members at large, and have authority to admit or reject candidates ad libitum. The number of this association is now very great, having been of late years much increased; they have standards, with appropriate emblems and mottoes, and shoot for several prizes annually; amongst these are a silver bowl and arrows, which, by a singular regulation, "are retained by the successful candidate only one year, when he appends a medal to them; and as these prizes are of more than a hundred years standing, the number of medals now attached to them are very curious."
To this notice may I be permitted to subjoin a few stanzas? Old Izaak Walton hath put songs and sylvan poesy in plenty into the mouths of his anglers and rural dramatis personae, and shall I be blamed for following, in all humility, his illustrious example? Perchance—but hold! it is one of the fairest of summer mornings; the sun sheds a pure, a silvery light on the young, fresh, new-waked foliage and herbage; a faint mist veils the blue distance of the landscape; but the pearly shroud conceals not yonder troop of young blithe men, who, arranged in green, after the olden fashion, each bearing the implements of archery, and tripping lightly over the heath, are carolling in the joy of their free spirits, while the fresh breeze brings to my ear most distinctly the words of
THE ARCHER'S SONG.
Away!—away!—yon golden sun
Hath chas'd nights' shadows damp and dun;
Forth from his turfy couch, the lark
Hath sprung to meet glad day: and hark!
A mingling and delicious song
Breathes from the blithe-voiced plumy throng;
While, to the green-wood hasten we
Whose craft is, gentle archery!
Now swift we bound o'er dewy grass!
Rousing the red fox as we pass,
And startling linnet, merle, and thrush,
As recklessly the boughs we brush.
The hunter's horn sings thro' the brakes.
And its soft lay apt echo takes;
But soon her sweet enamoured tone
Shall tell what song is all our own!
On!—on!—glad brothers of the bow!
The dun deer's couching place ye know,
And gallant bucks this day shall rue
Our feather'd shafts,—so swift,—so true;
Yet, sorer than the sylvan train,
Our foes, upon the battle-plain,
Will mourn at the unerring hands
Of Albion's matchless archer bands!
Now hie we on, to silent shades,
To glist'ning streams, and sunlit glades,
Where all that woodland life can give,
Renders it bliss indeed, to live.
Come, ye who love the shadowy wood,
Whate'er your days, whate'er your mood.
And join us, freakish knights that be
Of grey-goose wing, and good yew-tree!
Say—are ye mirthful?—then we'll sing
Of wayward feasts and frolicking;—
Tell jests and gibes,—nor lack we store
Of knightly tales, and monkish lore;
High freaks of dames and cavaliers,
Of warlocks, spectres, elfs, and seers,
Till with glad heart, and blithesome brow,
Ye bless your brothers of the bow!
Is sadness courted?—ye shall lie
When summer's sultry noons are high,
By darkling forest's shadow'd stream
To muse;—or, sweeter still, to dream
Day-dreams of love; while round ye rise
Distant, delicious harmonies;
Until ye languishing declare
An archer's life, indeed is fair!
M. L. B.