“Go, saddle me the black,” he says,
“The brown rides never so speedie;
And I will neither eat nor drink
Till I bring home my ladie.”
He wandered high, he wandered low,
He wandered late and early,
Until he came to that wan water,
And there he spied his ladie.
“O wilt thou go home, my hinny and my heart,
O wilt thou go home, my dearie;
And I will close thee in a close room
Where no man shall come near thee.”
“I will not go home, my hinny and heart,
I will not come, my dearie;
If I have brewn good beer, I will drink of the same,
And my lord shall nae mair come near me.
“But I will swear by the moon and the stars,
And the sun that shines sae clearly,
That I am as free of the Gipsy gang
As the hour my mother did bear me.”
They were fifteen valiant men,
Black, but very bonny,
And they all lost their lives for one,
The Earl of Cassilis’ ladie.
Tradition states that John Faa, the leader of a band of Gipsies, seizing the opportunity of the Earl of Cassilis’ absence, on a deputation to the Assembly of divines at Westminster, in 1643, to ratify the solemn league and covenant, carried off the lady. The Earl was considered a sullen and ill-tempered man, and perhaps not a very agreeable companion to his lady.[161]
Before proceeding to give an account of the modern Gipsies on the Scottish Border, I shall transcribe an interesting note which Sir Walter Scott gave to the public, in explaining the origin of that singular character Meg Merrilies, in the novel Guy Mannering. The illustrious author kindly offered me the “scraps” which he had already given to Blackwood’s Magazine, to incorporate them, if I chose, in my history of the Gipsies; but I prefer giving them in his own words.
“My father,” says Sir Walter, “remembered Jean Gordon of Yetholm, who had a great sway among her tribe. She was quite a Meg Merrilies, and possessed the savage virtue of fidelity in the same perfection. Having been hospitably received at the farm-house of Lochside, near Yetholm, she had carefully abstained from committing any depredations on the farmer’s property. But her sons, (nine in number,) had not, it seems, the same delicacy, and stole a brood-sow from their kind entertainer. Jean was so much mortified at this ungrateful conduct, and so much ashamed of it, that she absented herself from Lochside for several years. At length, in consequence of some temporary pecuniary necessity, the good-man of Lochside was obliged to go to Newcastle, to get some money to pay his rent. Returning through the mountains of Cheviot, he was benighted, and lost his way. A light, glimmering through the window of a large waste-barn, which had survived the farm-house to which it had once belonged, guided him to a place of shelter; and when he knocked at the door, it was opened by Jean Gordon. Her very remarkable figure, for she was nearly six feet high, and her equally remarkable features and dress, rendered it impossible to mistake her for a moment; and to meet with such a character, in so solitary a place, and probably at no great distance from her clan, was a terrible surprise to the poor man, whose rent, (to lose which would have been ruin to him,) was about his person. Jean set up a loud shout of joyful recognition. ‘Eh, sirs! the winsome gude-man of Lochside! Light down, light down; for ye manna gang farther the night, and a friend’s house sae near!’ The farmer was obliged to dismount, and accept of the Gipsy’s offer of supper and a bed. There was plenty of meat in the barn, however it might be come by, and preparations were going on for a plentiful supper, which the farmer, to the great encrease of his anxiety, observed was calculated for ten or twelve guests of the same description, no doubt, with his landlady. Jean left him in no doubt on the subject. She brought up the story of the stolen sow, and noticed how much pain and vexation it had given her. Like other philosophers, she remarked that the world grows worse daily, and, like other parents, that the bairns got out of her guiding, and neglected the old Gipsy regulations which commanded them to respect, in their depredations, the property of their benefactors. The end of all this was an enquiry what money the farmer had about him, and an urgent request that he would make her his purse-keeper, as the bairns, as she called her sons, would be soon home. The poor farmer made a virtue of necessity, told his story, and surrendered his gold to Jean’s custody. She made him put a few shillings in his pocket; observing it would excite suspicion should he be found travelling altogether penniless. This arrangement being made, the farmer lay down on a sort of shake-down, as the Scotch call it, upon some straw; but, as is easily to be believed, slept not. About midnight the gang returned with various articles of plunder, and talked over their exploits, in language which made the farmer tremble. They were not long in discovering their guest, and demanded of Jean whom she had got there. ‘E’en the winsome gude-man of Lochside, poor boy,’ replied Jean; ‘he’s been at Newcastle, seeking siller to pay his rent, honest man, but deil-be-licket he’s been able to gather in; and sae he’s gaun e’en hame wi’ a toom purse and a sair heart.’ ‘That may be, Jean,’ replied one of the banditti, ‘but we maun ripe his pouches a bit, and see if it be true or no.’ Jean set up her throat in exclamation against this breach of hospitality, but without producing any change of their determination. The farmer soon heard their stifled whispers and light steps by his bed-side, and understood they were rummaging his clothes. When they found the money which the prudence of Jean Gordon had made him retain, they held a consultation if they should take it or not; but the smallness of the booty, and the vehemence of Jean’s remonstrances, determined them on the negative. They caroused, and went to rest. So soon as day dawned, Jean roused her guest, produced his horse, which she had accommodated behind the hallan, and guided him for some miles, till he was on the high-road to Lochside. She then restored his whole property, nor could his earnest entreaties prevail on her to accept so much as a single guinea.
“I have heard the old people at Jedburgh say that all Jean’s sons were condemned to die there on the same day. It is said the jury were equally divided, but that a friend of justice, who had slept during the whole discussion, waked suddenly, and gave his vote for condemnation, in the emphatic words: ‘Hang them a’.’ Jean was present, and only said, ‘The Lord help the innocent in a day like this.’ Her own death was accompanied with circumstances of brutal outrage, of which poor Jean was, in many respects, wholly undeserving. Jean had, among other demerits, or merits, as you may choose to rank it, that of being a staunch Jacobite. She chanced to be at Carlisle, upon a fair or market day, soon after the year 1746, where she gave vent to her political partiality, to the great offence of the rabble in that city. Being zealous in their loyalty when there was no danger, in proportion to the tameness with which they had surrendered to the Highlanders, in 1745, they inflicted upon poor Jean Gordon no slighter penalty than that of ducking her to death in the Eden. It was an operation of some time, for Jean was a stout woman, and, struggling with her murderers, often got her head above water; and, while she had voice left, continued to exclaim, at such intervals, ‘Charlie yet! Charlie yet!’