"O aid me, then, to seek the pair, Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; Alone, I dare not venture there, Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost." "Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep."— "O first, for pity's gentle sake, Guide a lone wanderer on her way! For I must cross the haunted brake, And reach my father's towers ere day." "First, three times tell each Ave-bead, And thrice a Pater-noster say; Then kiss with me the holy rede; So shall we safely wend our way." "O shame to knighthood, strange and foul ! Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, Which best befits thy sullen vow. "Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, Thy heart was froze to love and joy, When gaily rung thy raptured lyre To wanton Morna's melting eye." Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame, And high his sable locks arose, And quick his colour went and came, As fear and rage alternate rose. "And thou! when by the blazing oak I lay, to her and love resign'd, Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind? "Not thine a race of mortal blood, Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; Thy dame, the Lady of the FloodThy sire, the Monarch of the Mine." He mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme, And sternly shook his coal-black hair. And, bending o'er his harp, he flung His wildest witch-notes on the wind; And loud, and high, and strange, they rung, As many a magic change they find. Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, Till to the roof her stature grew; Then, mingling with the rising storm, With one wild yell away she flew. Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear : The slender hut in fragments flew ; But not a lock of Moy's loose hair Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale, Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise; High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell; And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell. Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm;. The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade: And last, the life-blood streaming warm, Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. Oft o'er that head, in battling field, Stream'd the proud crest of high Ben more; That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. Woe to Moneira's sullen rills! Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen! There never son of Albin's hills Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen! E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet At noon shall shun that sheltering den, Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet The wayward Ladies of the Glen. And we—behind the Chieftain's shield, No more shall we in safety dwell; None leads the people to the field And we the loud lament must swell. O hone a rie'! O hone a rie' ! The pride of Albin's line is o'er! And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. SMAYLHO'ME, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden, [now Lord Polwarth.] The tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended on three sides by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron gate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watchfold, and is said to have been the station of a beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath, in the neighbourhood of Smaylho'me Tower. This ballad was first printed in Mr. LEWIS's Tales of Wonder. It is here published, with some additional illustrations, particularly an account of the battle of Ancram Moor; which seemed proper in a work upon Border antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon a well-known Irish tradition. This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene of the Editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate them in a Border tale. THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone. He went not with the bold Buccleuch, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore; At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more. * The plate-jack is coat-armour: the vauntbrace, or wam-brace, armour for the body: the sperthe, a battle-axe. He came not from where Ancram Moor 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, But it was not English gore. He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, His name was English Will. "Come thou hither, my little foot-page, Though thou art young, and tender of age, nce I from Smaylho'me tower have been, What did thy lady do?" My lady, each night, sought the lonely light, That burns on the wild Watchfold; or, from height to height, the beacons bright Of the English foemen told. The bittern clamour'd from the moss, I watch'd her steps, and silent came The second night I kept her in sight, nd, by Mary's might! an Armed Knight Stood by the lonely flame. And many a word that warlike lord ut the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, And I heard not what they were. The third night there the sky was fair, And the mountain-blast was still, is again I watch'd the secret pair, On the lonesome Beacon Hill. And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve; And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower; Ask no bold Baron's leave. "He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch ; His lady is all alone; The door she'll undo, to her knight so true, On the eve of St. John I must wander alone: In thy bower I may not be.'"Now, out on thee, fainthearted knight! Thou shouldst not say me nay; For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, Is worth the whole summer's day. "And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair; So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St. John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there!''Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, And my footstep he would know.'"O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east, For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'— "He turn'd him around, and grimly he frown'd; Then he laugh'd right scornfully'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight, May as well say mass for me: "At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, In thy chamber will I be.'With that he was gone, and my lady left alone, And no more did I see. Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow, From the dark to the blood-red high; "Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, For, by Mary, he shall die!""His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light; His plume it was scarlet and blue; On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, And his crest was a branch of the yew." "Thou liest, thou liest, thou little footpage, Loud dost thou lie to me! For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, All under the Eildon-tree." "Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! For I heard her name his name; And that lady bright, she called the knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame." The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow, From high blood-red to pale"The grave is deep and dark-and the corpse is stiff and stark So I may not trust thy tale. "Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, That gay gallant was slain. "The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the name; For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!" He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate, And he mounted the narrow stair, To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, He found his lady fair. That lady sat in mournful mood; Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood, And all down Teviotdale. "Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!". "Now hail, thou Baron true! What news, what news, from Ancram fight? What news from the bold Buccleuch?". "The Ancram moor is red with gore, The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said: And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said,"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep. It cannot give up the dead!" It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well-nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St. John. The lady look'd through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there Sir Richard of Coldinghame! "Alas! away, away!" she cried, "For the holy Virgin's sake!""Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake. "By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain; The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain. "By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain, I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, For a space is doom'd to dwell. “At our trysting-place,* for a certain space, I must wander to and fro; But I had not had power to come to thy bower Had'st thou not conjured me so." — Love master'd fear-her brow she cross'd; "How, Richard, hast thou sped? And art thou saved, or art thou lost?" The vision shook his head! "Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; So bid thy lord believe : He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; The sable score, of fingers four, There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, He speaketh word to none. That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, CADYOW CASTLE. ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. THE ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the Civil Wars, during the reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with a generous zeal, which occasioned their temporary obscurity, and, very nearly, their total ruin. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shows that they have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was long preserved in this forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed. In detailing the death of the Regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following ballad, it would be injustice to my reader to use other words than those of Dr. Robertson, whose account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting. "Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and owed his life to the Regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of the Regent's favourites, who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed to be revenged of the Regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his_private resentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprise. The maxims of that age justified the most desperate course he could take to obtain vengeance. followed the Regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved at last to wait till his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through which he was to pass in his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took He |