Minor Poems by James Gordon

I have found out that James died in 1860 aged 50 years.
He has written extensively of Scottish history and tales mainly relating to the Fyvie area and the river Ythan. I'm finding the stories and his knowledge fascinating! Not sure how many greats he is to me I think four!

The footnotes are really interesting!! I've checked out a few bits lots on the internet the bits I've written in red are things I found.
Here are some interesting sights:
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Mikhail-Bogdanovich-Prince-Barclay-de-Tolly
https://www.britannica.com/event/Battle-of-Wagram
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_de_Gordon_(died_1402)
https://scotlandsplaces.gov.uk/digital-volumes/ordnance-survey-name-books/aberdeenshire-os-name-books-1865-1871/aberdeenshire-volume-63/41

There are lots of words that are unfamiliar, I will compile a list with meanings at the end. May need some help with this!!

Minor Poems:

Historical and Traditional

And

Ballads

Chiefly relating to Fyvie and its

Neighbourhood

By

James Gordon

Camalines

Printed for the Author by A. King & Co.,

Concert Court, Broad Street,

Aberdeen

1858

Contents:

1.    Dedication                                                                                 

2.    The Raid of Towie                                                                    

3.    The Auld House o’ Towie, the Prophecy                                 

4.    The Gordons                                                                            

5.    The Bloody Butts o’ Lendrum                                                 

6.    The Minstrel’s Last Song                                                         

7.    The Last Lord Fyvie

8.    The lady’s Burial

9.    Wallace’s Oak

10.      The Old Man’s Tale

11.      The Burial of a Celtic Chief

12.      The Fairy Knowe

13.      Mitchell’s Cairn

14.      Death of Lord Haddo, a Ballad

15.      The Ghost of Bairnsdale, revised

16.      The Phantom Army

17.      A Dream

18.      The Holy Well

19.      Suggested on Seeing Queen Mary’s Casket

20.      The Grave of Ossian

21.      To the Ocean

22.      The Mystery of the Winds

23.      Lines Suggested on Reading the Life and Remains of the Rev. Robert Murray McCheyne

24.      Lines on the Death of a Young Student of Divinity

25.      Lament for Lieutenant Rober Abercrombie

26.      Death of a Drunkard’s Child

27.      The Idiot’s Death

28.      The Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus

29.      Greatness

30.      Lines on her Majesty’s Return to Balmoral

31.      Lines on the Return of Captain Gordon of Fyvie

32.      To G------ L----------- Esq

33.      To my Little Daughter

34.      Poem on 2 Samuel ii 19        Incomplete

35.      Poem to Mr Robert Anderson   Missing

36.      The Bridal Song to Mr Robert Anderson   Missing

Dedicated

To

Mr Peter Garden Jun.,

Woodtown, Turriff.

Dedication[1]

My patron, lover of old tales,

Old relics and old songs,

I’m proud to dedicate my rhymes,

As unto you belongs!

The gift, - if gift it may be term’d,

In every sense to thee, -

At all events, I’m well aware,

‘T is honour unto me;

And herein, Sir, from first to last,

I’m thankful for to say,

That nought of morals is infring’d,

At all in any way; -

But tales that’s old and long gone by, -

Perhaps by critics doom’d,

As useless stuff, which on a day,

Across out land has loomed

All this may be, but what of that,

I venerate “Old Times”

And ever thankful for old “weirds,”

Old ballads and old rhymes.

I love to see your rusty sword, -

Your long bows and your spears –

Your arrow heads, and battle axe,

All things of bygone years.

And then your many colour’d shells,

Of which you have a store,

And fossil stones of different kinds

Brought home from foreign shore.

And your old coins of Roman stamp

Caligula and Caesar, -

While Greece and China lent their aid

To fill your chosen treasure.

Your specimens of foreign birds

Are wonderful to see,

Brought sixteen thousand miles, I true,

Home o’er a stormy sea.

All these things teach a lesson to

The man of thoughtful mood,

But I digress, and must be done,

Then it be understood,

That I inscribe, with due respect,

Sir, … this small volume o’er

To you, as one well verst in rhyme,

And all your country’s lore.

     

                James Gordon.

---

[1] It was customary, as early as 331, to dedicate Churches, Wells, etc., to certain saints, and when books followed, they were dedicated to great men

Poems

The Raid of Towie[1]

The Moon was up o’er Camalines,

The star o’er Stonmanhill,

When Banff and Cromarty had met,

And their thoughts were on ill:

And Johnston, wi’ the bau’d Gordon,

Inflamed their minds to Ire,

That night at Gight for to consume

Auld Towie House in fire.

They marshalled on the green of Gight

That night their stalwart men,

And Johnston led to horse by dawn,

And bound to Towie’s glen

Saft blew the wind o’er tower and tree,

On the bonnie tenth of May,

And ere the sun did gild the hills

They were upon their way.

Loud blew the piper’s gathering note,

That pibroch sharp and shrill,

The Gordon’s war-note, ever loud,

Was heard to pass Monkshill.

And through by Tifty’s dowie den,

And up past Stonemanhill,

On, on they sped past Camalines

Their purpose to fulfil.

The warder on the high house top,

Could see both far and near,

And loud and long he blew a blast,

When he saw them appear.

The house stands on a rising ground,

In a wide – spreading – glen,

Aye happy to its maidens’ fair,

But luckless to its men.

So, goes the weird of black spae-wife,

Pronounced in hell-born hate,

Against the honour’d Barclay line,

Before Auld Towie’s gate.

And how that weird has had effect,

The meanest hind may know –

The last of all that honoured line,

In battle was laid low.

But to our tale. The Lord Fraser –

A Stately chief to see –

At Towie, with his stalwart men

That night had happ’d to be.

And on that morn, when blew the blast

Of trumpet on the wall,

He muster’d all his merry men

Within that mighty hall –

That hall which yesterday beheld

The festive table spread,

Beholds another scene today –

The guests in armour clad.

That lofty dome with retted roof,

And hieroglyphics grey,

Hath stood the brunt of many an age,

And yet mocks at decay.

Oft when the moon’s pale-yellow beams,

Would gild the Eastern wave,

The hoary minstrel’s trembling harp,

Sung the deeds of the brave:

And oft in silence, there would be

A lady-list’ning throng,

Whose ample praise was still bestow’d

Upon the minstrel’s song.

These ladies on that fatal morn,

Sought for the inmost bower,

And wept to think that they might be

Brought into Gordon’s power.

But Lord Fraser, that baron bold,

And Barclay tried and true,

Did boun’ them to the battlement,

Gight’s followers to view.

“What brought ye here,” Auld Towie cried

“Gight, in your armour strong,

Wi’ Banff and beardless Cromarty

Your followers among?”

“We come,” cried Cromarty in wrath,

“My armour to retrieve.

That frae Pitfalley’s house ye too;

And, if we’re left alive,

“Ye ’ill pay the cost, ye traitor loon –

For traitor loon ye be,

And faithless to your sov’reign

As well’s ye’ve been to me.

“Then give the guns and culverin,

Ilk sword and polish’d spear;

They yet may glitter in the front

When yours may not appear.”

“I am no traitor loon,” he cried

From the house top, so high;

For Scotland and the Covenant

I’m ready for to die!

Go fire on them cried Lord Fraser-

An angry man was he;

Nae langer may ye parley here,

But try what fate may be.”

Will did they scan that motley troop

Before they fired a shot,

And at the first round from the wall

They’ve slain bauld David Prott.

His was the first blood which was lost

For Scotland’s Reformation;

But hundreds follow’d after that,

Mid grief and Lamentation.

“Who spills the foremost foeman’s life.”

Says that great wizard Scott,

“Is sure to conquer in the strife.”

So was ’t with David Prott.

When Gight saw that his man was slain

Nae langer would he stay;

And Banff and Cromarty took horse

And quickly rode away

And Towie House remains the same,

At least its Gothic Hall;

And generations yet unborn

May not behold its fall.

---

[1] The ballad is founded on a narrative given in Spalding’s “History of the Troubles of Scotland,” of an attack made on Towie on the 10^th of May 1639, by the young lairds of Banff and Cromarty, and Gight; the object being to recover Cromarty’s armour, which Towie had taken from Pitfalley’s House, now Hatton Castle.

The Auld House O’ Towie

The Prophecy

At Earlston[1]was born a bard,

A wizard term’d by many

And strange to say, his prophecies

Hold yet as good as any.

There’s scarce a town in fair Scotland,

But hears that wizard’s weird,

And still through each locality

What Thomas said is feare’d.

He prophesied “Auld Towie House,

Which lies into a glen,

Should happy to its maidens prove,

But hurtful to its men.”

Now let us calmly read the tale,

Of full six hundred years,

Wherein we find how every heir

Died, strange though it appears.

For ere the time the oldest son

Could spur the rampant steed,

And hold the bridle rein with power,

That son was ever dead!

A woe was on that fated house,

A weird was on the name

Of the great Barclays, and ‘twas said

Auld Thomas bore the blame.

That name through Scotland’s history shines

‘Mong the deeds of mighty men,

And self-upheld like their old house

Still standing in the glen

Yes, in our day a Barclay[2] stemm’d

The current of the power

Of “Europe’s scourge,” in Russia’s wilds,

When tempests dark did lower.

But to our tale – we must be brief –

The land was sold away

For that same prophecy, which still

Appear’d to hold such sway.

Earl Findlater[3] he bought that land

Unto his second son;

But oh! That weird was ever there,

He died! He could not shun

That prophecy, which ever seem’d

Alike to every chief.

Again, the Earl he sold it off,

To bring his mind relief.

So strong was his conviction that

This prophecy was true,

That ne’er in time could he be brought

The fated house to view.

The father’s heart, no doubt, was bound

Up in that comely youth,

For ever afterward he grieve’d,

And said that weird was true.

Oh, who shall scan that mystery,

Or who may set at nought

Historic facts, clear as the day

Down to our own time brought.

‘T is not the scum of bygone days,

From time’s old ashes brought,

Nor is ’t the vague ideas which

In some weak minds are wrought, -

But truth’s mysterious as strange,

Say of it what we may,

Dark as tomorrow’s on-goings,

Which we know not today.

---

[1] Earlston a parish in the south-western district of Lauderdale, Berwickshire, claims the honour of giving birth to Thomas the Rhymer, and there is still a stone pointed out as the place where he delivered his prophecies.

[2] De Tolly Barclay entered the Russian service young, and rose, through all the grades, to a General, in 1806. He commanded the division of the army sent to the assistance of Prussia against the French, and distinguished himself at the bloody battle of Wagram, by defeating the French – the first time they ever met a check. At the great Russian campaign, as it is called, he was Minister of War, and his plan of burning the corn, etc., resulted, as is well known, in the destruction of the Grand Army in their disastrous retreat from Moscow.

[3] Mr Barclay for the “Weird,” in 1753, sold the land to the Earl of Findlater, who, after “dreeing the weird,” (I have searched Scots language on-line and the best I can come up with is suffering the fate) sold it to Gordon’s Hospital in Aberdeen, in 1792, in whose possession it still remains, and who not need dread the death of their first-born. (Robert Gordon’s College today)

The Gordons

Tha throirachadh aig na Gordanich.

“The Gordons ha’e the guidin’ o ’t.”

A hoary minstrel, with his harp,

And locks of silver grey,

Came to our door the other night,

And sair, sair wish’d to stay.

“Where cam’ ye frae, my minstrel old,

And where, too, are ye boun’?

Perhaps some legend ye can Gi’e

Of country or of toun?”

“I liv’d my life for sixty years,

Near by the Bog o’ Gight,

If they’d been there who are awa’,

I’d ne’er been here this night.

“And I’ll tell you a tale that’s auld,

But no’ the less it’s true;

Perhaps it is as wonderful

As history carries through.

“The Gordons were a powerful race,

But to their king still true;

From good Sir Adam Gordon[1] whom

King Bruce did well endow.

“The first of good Sir Adam’s deeds’

From which the Gordons rose,

Was in Sir Willian Wallace’ day,

Weel kent to Scotland’s foes.

“In Galloway Sir Adam fought,

And Wigton’s castle kept;

At Hallidon hill he bravely fell,

Where many a warrior slept.

“And Alexander his brave son,

The first called ‘Huntly,’ he

Did wonders on that battlefield,

And made the southron flee.

“And well he stood king David Bruce

In many a bloody fray:

And dear was he lov’d by his king,

Unto his dying day.

“On Durham’s fatal plain he fell

By good king David’s side;

And wail! Our king made prisoner’

In durance to abide.

“And Sir john Gordon, his brave son,

The next that did succeed,

Was led a captive on that day,

All without remeed.

“Eleven years’ captivity

In southern keep laid fast,

But when relieved, his gracious king,

Confirm’d all honours past.

“Soon after this, that worthy chief

By cold death was laid low,

Succeeded by his son, Sir John,

Whom Huntly well does know.

“Along with Earl Douglas, he

At Otterburn was slain,

As good a knight as Scotland’s king

Did in his bounds retain.

“His son, Lord Adam Gordon, next

Of Huntly’s wide domain,

At Homildon Hill, with many more

Of Scotland’s chiefs, was slain.

“He left no son to wield the sword

The shield, nor yet the spear;

But he did leave a daughter fair –

Elizabeth good and dear.”

Here he paused the minstrel, and the tear

Came rolling down his cheek;

He claspt the old harp to his breast

Before that he could speak.

“Here’s four of Scotland’s bloody fields

Whereon a Gordon lay –

Each generation as it came’

Lost its chief in its day.

“A Douglas could forget his king;

At times so could Argyll;

But never was a Gordon known

His monarch to beguile.

“We challenge Scotland for a race

So powerful and so true

To king and country, and who did

Auld Scotland’s foes subdue.

“Old Aberdeen its mighty Lord,

And Richmond’s noble Duke,

May read with pleasure, and with pride,

Scotland’s historic book.”

So, said the bard, while in his eye

A secret pride arose;

I knew he’d seen a better day

And’s life was near a close.

---

[1] Sir Adam Gordon was one of the greatest men of his day, being equally qualified for the cabinet and the field; and from him all the Gordons in Scotland appear to be descended. Hallidon Hill as fought in 1333; Durham in 1346; Otterburn in 1388 and Homildon Hill in 1402.

The Bloody Butts o’ Lendrum

‘T was yellow autumn, and the morn

Was fair and clear to see,

And the reapers’ song, among the corn,

Was heard o’er hill and lee;

And soft the western breezes blew

To move the thistle’s down,

Which from its parent scarcely flew,

But fell in flakes around;

And sweet and dear the distant hum

Of the busy reapers’ song,

Bourne, on the breath of passing breeze,

From distant fields along.

But the Bloody Butts o’ Lendrum[1]

No song of joy can yield,

For the course of dying parasite[2]

Is left upon that field.

He left his native mountains

When the pibroch sounded high,

And his chieftain’s banner waved

That morning in the sky.

But that home no more he’ll visit,

And that pibroch’s latest breath

Is hushed upon the Bloody Butts

‘Mid agonies of death!

His weeping wife bewailed him

As he lingered on his door,

And his boding bosom told him

He’d return again no more.

Oft had he left his heathy hills

For foray, strife, and raid,

But ne’er before his manly heart

Had ever been afraid.

He followed his great chieftain –

The Lord of all the Isles –

Through a desperate rebellion

And its accompanying toils.

Through long, dark generations

His fathers’ sung and told.

To lords then long departed,

The battle deeds of old.

And he their last descendant

Was brought to see this strife,

And chronicle the mighty deeds

Of daring Donald’s life.

Three fearful days of carnage

He saw upon that hill,

And the Bloody Butt, in clotted gore,

Ran down in many a rill.

He saw – but how I shudder! –

And where’s the power to tell –

How demon-like the conquerors

Fought over those who fell.

He saw the foaming steed press on

And trample down the head

Of many a dying clansman,

‘mong that erst were dead.

He saw the Thane of Buchan

Rush o’er that bloody field,

And underneath his powerful sweep,

His boasted chieftain yield.

He saw that daring few collect,

That bore his chief away,

And then he cursed that bloody field

Whereon he wounded lay.

That curse lies on that fated field;

It never has been shorn,

Unless it drank some reaper’s blood,

When mowing down the corn.

‘T is strange, though seven centuries,

That strife should ever rest

Upon that bloated field when all

The country round is blest.

---

[1] In the parish of Monquhitter, on the Farm of Lendrum was fought a great battle about the year 1093, against Donald of the Isles, or Donald Bane, brother to Malcolm of Canmore. The battle was fought for three days against the forces of the north, commanded by the Tane of Buchan, who was of the Royal party. The battle of the first day was fought about a mile east of Lendrum, where a small number of tumuli mark the graves of the slain, and from whence Donald Bane was driven back to his camp, the situation of which, called Donald’s Field, is still shown. The battle of the second day was fought hard by the camp, and there more than an acre of land is covered with large tumuli. The third and last battle was fought to the west of Lendrum, upon a field, more than six acres of which tradition covers with gore. The Tane of Buchan, at the head of the Canmore party, prevailed, and the usurper Donald, after losing his forces, was obliged to flee. Such is the effect of superstition that the prediction still holds out – “That corn growing on the Bloody Butts of Lendrum should never be reaped without strife or bloodshed among the reapers.” This prediction is said to have been literally fulfilled. – Old Statistical Account.

[2] Parasite originally meant a king or chief among priests, sometimes a priest’s guest, whom he invited to eat part of the feast or sacrifice, whence it was applied to the old bards or those living on a great man. Every chief of note, had a bard, who went to battle and sung his chief’s great deeds at “the feast of shells.’

The Minstrel’s Last Song

The following ballad is founded on the traditional accounts of a battle fought in Fyvie. A band of Highland Caterans had made a descent on the Howe of Fyvie, for the purpose of “lifting” the cattle. The people, collecting in numbers at the request of their laird, gave the marauders battle. The fight, which commenced near Gourdas, was one of great obstinacy, the invaders maintaining a bold front, though gradually retiring to the hill above Towie, where they finally gave way, and fled.  Numerous cairns are still pointed out as marking the sepulchres of the slain.

A Minstrel old sat on a mound

By Ythan’s pearly stream,

Full eighty winters had passed their round

Of life’s expressive dream

O’er that old man, but yet the fire

Would kindle when he’d tune his lyre.

A lady fair stood by his side,

Her fingers touched the string,

I ween she was the old man’s pride,

For oft to him she’d bring

            The mead of pity and reward,

To soothe the last days of her Bard.

O fair, fair was her lily skin,

And thoughtful was her cheek,

And virtue only dwelt within

That soul of hers so meek;

            And her white hand was ever open

            To that old Bard with some love token.

How soft, soft was her sea green gown,

Made of the silk so fine,

And graceful waved her curls brown

Wi’ every breath of win’;

            She was so young so fair, so good,

            She looked a vision where she stood.

“Come sing me a song, my minstrel old,”

She said, “and let it be

Some ancient legend you have told

Long time ago to me.

I do not love that empty sound

That comes from maddening mirth,

Creating vacant laughter round,

And dying at its birth.

“But I do love to hear your song

Of sympathetic grief,

It leaves the mind impressed so long,

And sorrow finds relief.”

“My head is white. Lady Margaret,

With fourscore years and more,

And my fingers cannot find the strings

As they were wont before.

“My cheeks are ale, Lady Margaret,

With little times all-powerful sway,

My ear it does not know the sound

And soon I’ll be away.

“But my last song, Lady Margaret,

It shall be sung to thee,

Ans slow and solemn be the air

When it’s the last from me.”

The Song

It fell on a time when the autumn blast swept

The sere yellow leaf from its auld parent tree,

That the cat’rans came down like a stream from their mountains,

And forayed the maist of this low country

Fu’ strong was their chief, and red had his hand been

In mony a black raid and foray I trow,

But this last was the worst, and by far the severest,

That ever that clan and their leader came through.

Desolation and waste was seen to attend them,

And sorrow and weeping did follow their path,

Through the Gairloch they swept like a blast on Formartine,

And Fyvie was doomed to feel all their wrath.

When Fyvie got word that the caterans were coming,

His man like the wind rode o’er hill and through vale,

And the trumpet and gong were in great requisition,

To warn all the people to meet on the dale.

Then oh, to the glittering of spears and broad-swords!

An oh, to the gathering of men far and near!

And oh, for the wailing of women and children!

That morn, through Fyvie, was terror and fear!

Have you seen the tempest in all its wild fury?

Have you heard the roar in the woods of its blast,

When oaks of a century are torn asunder,

And nature convulsed as it were the last.

Then such was the roar of the battle’s wild fury

Near Gourdas that morn: Full loud was the scream

Of the wounded and dying in that fearful tumult –

Unearthly the yell of the cateran did seem.

Sore were they pressed; but unwilling to yield,

For a long mile and more they contended the strife,

Till the best of their men in that fearful contention

Had yielded their claymores along with their life.

Raise the wail then ye widows far west in the Highlands,

For long may ye look for the drove on the hill,

For you husbands though powerful at wielding the broad-sword,

Beneath the grey cairn are now sleeping still.

And long will the child cry for its wild father,

No more shall his guilty hand rest on its head,

Retribution at last has come up with his misdeeds,

And cold is that hand now, and stiff ‘mong the dead.

And little remains now of that fearful struggle,

Save the lonely cairns which cover the bones –

And woe to the narrow heart that ere would remove them,

Surely, they’re sacred, these moss-covered stones.

Thus, ended the song of the Bard grey and hoary,

Lady Margaret’s fair cheek it was wet with a tear,

The sound of his harp it had made her heart sorry,

And his words they fell tremulous upon her fair ear.

 The Last Lord of Fyvie

Fyvie, Fyvie, ye shall never thrive,

As lang’s there’s stones into you three.[1]

There’s one in the lady’s bower and one in Preston’s tower,

And one in the water yet, and it ye shall never get.

                                                         Thomas the Rhymer.

‘T was evening grey as the sentry sat

On Fyvie’s lonely towers,

When good lord Seaton’s man came back,

The last time to his bowers.

He had been wi’ his good master

As far south as Dunblane,

At Sherriffmuir, that fatal day,

Where a thousand men were slain.

At Killiecrankie’s awful pass

And battle he had been,

And all the jarring of these times

And carnage he had seen;

And many stately tower laid waste,

Through Scotland once so fair –

For six-and-twenty bloody years

War raged fierce and sair.

Few, few of Scotland’s bold Barons

But joined in the strife;

And good lord Seaton, for his king,

Risked both his lands and life;

And four-and-twenty men and horse

That time he took away

To Sherriffmuir; and did command

The horse troop on that day –

And Erskine of Pittodrie strong

The big guns had in care –

He and Lord Seaton fought that day

Harder than any there.

And on that well-fought battle-field

They left a faithful share

Of toil-worn men among the dead,

Which Fyvie ill could spare.

For troubles sore swept o’er the land,

And Scotland rent in twain,

From east sea bank to western isles,

King Jamie to retain.

And after that dread day, in which

Each party claimed to be

The victors, our Barons yet found

Their King was doomed to flee.

From Cromlet’s banks to Biraldales,

And round by Stonemanhill,

Three troop of foot they quartered there,

Which of wrought muckle ill;

And two troops of their heavy horse

The kirk took for their bield –

These troopers tore the woodwork out,

No sacrilege they held.

From Klincumstile to Bairndale

They made their quarters good;

And woe to those who said them nay,

These troopers and rude.

But to out tale: Lord Seaton’s, man

Returned one gloomy night,

In drear November, cold and bleak,

Disguised in the twilight;

And two hours in that old castle

That night alone did stay,

And under his arm a small bundle

Was all he brought away.

But what that bundle could have been,

No living man could say,

‘T was thought t’ have been the title-deeds

And gold he had brought away.

O dusty, dusty was his cap,

Disguised wi’ ragged band;

His coat the spider’s web defil’d

From neck down to the hand.

And, as he passed, the sentry there

Loud, loud and long did call –

“A rebel loon,” but was not heard

By ’s comrades in the hall.

For high the revelry did rise,

And wild their wassail glee,

No sentry’s call was hard by them,

And so good Gawn got free.

He sprang to bush at Stockar’s Well,

And bounded through the wood,

A last long look from off the hill

He too where on he stood.

Then heid him to his master dear,

In’s hiding place so drear,

Whose limbs oft pressed the downy couch

The cold damp cave must bear.

They bown them to a foreign land,

To Flanders so did say;

There never has been another Lord

In Fyvie to this day.

But the brave steed that he rode on

Came back wi’ saddle toom,

Sore jaded at his stable door,

‘T was found there by the groom.

The bridle bit which that steed champ’d

When battle’s rage ran high –

A precious relic still is kept

And carefully laid by.

Who’d teach men to neglect those things,

That are so sacred old –

Teach them to forget themselves,

And so, my tale is told.

  

---

[1] The three stones alluded to were stepping-stones in the river Ythan, which runs past the castle on which the people north of it went over to “Sancte Mary’s Kirk,” a small ruin of which still exists near Lewes. The curse on the castle was pronounced by a disappointed hag or spae-wife, for removing them to the building of Preston’s Tower: hence the remark of prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer. All the other incident in the ballad are literally true, and from undoubted authority. At the time to which the ballad refers, twenty-four men and horse were termed half a militia, and forty-eight a whole one. An old man, still living, saw his father’s summons on the above occasion, who got a substitute to him. Killiecrankie was fought in 1689, Sherriffmuir in 1715, hence the twenty-six bloody years mentioned.

The Lady’s Burial

When the fire of war had burned low

And its embers were a smouldering

And Blair of Atholl’s lone kirkyard

Kept Claver’s bones a mouldering.

And, later still, when its coals were cold,

And Cumberland lay rotten, -

By Scotsmen justly execrate,

And other me forgotten.

And on Towerhill the headsman’s axe

Had done its fearful duty;

Balmerio’s lord, and Dawson young,

The flower of youth and beauty,

Had paid the debt which tyrants deem’d

For holy justice due;

In Scotland’s red and richest blood

Their hands they did imbrue.

‘T was after woeful “Forty-five,”

Our tale with times connected;

Its place is Fyvie’s green kirkyard,

Where money a scene’s been acted.

‘T was morn and through the bush and brake

The little birds were singing;

But a mournful peal rose on the wind

From Fyvie’s kirk-bell ringing.

And from there castle gate there pass’d

A slow and solemn throng:

All sad and silent was their march,

They thoughtful went along.

But there was one of sterner mould,

Unmoved by others’ woe,

Who heeded not each passer-by,

But sullen still did go.

With scornful air and measured tread,

His look cast on the ground,

Yet scanned each passer on the way,

Each as they passed around.

And those that met that searching glance

Sought not to meet another;

A fearful look that stranger bore –

He was that lady’s brother.

And by his sister’s bier at times

The big tear-drop would start,

Which showed the working of his soul

And anguish of his heart.

Another character was there,

Less worthy of regard,

Auchindochy the chamberlain,

With features rough and hard.

And in that throng, he held a place,

But ever kept aloof

From him we’ve mentioned; for we feare’d

To meet his stern reproof.

He had betrayed his sister fair,

Lord Seaton’s winsome lady,

And now they bear her to the grave,

In Fyvie’s churchyard ready.

And when they laid that lady down,

Auchindochy drew near,

And said, “Farewell, my spouse, for I

Can go no further here.”

Then up her brother bauld did rise,

And out his pistol drew,

And swore a solemn oath that he

Would shoot that leman through.

“Here or hereafter, may she ne’er

 Rise up again to shame,

As she has done both kith and kin,

And you, Sir, are to blame.”

These works transformed Auchindochy

Into such fiendish ire,

He bared his bosom to the winds,

And cried, “Put from you fire.”

By this the people gathered round,

And held his powerful arm,

And tore Auchindochy away,

Lest that he should him harm.

That harm perchance, he merited,

Perchance, too, he received;

For unexpectedly he died,

And few, few, was there grieve’d.

The lady’s faults I rake not up,

To show them through my rhymes;

No, ‘tis what woeful wars brought forth

To Scotland in past times.

War, and its wild barbarity,

Each better feeling sears,

And we must thing in charity

Of those of bygone years.

Wallace’s Oak

Near the west of the village of Elderslie, In the Abbey Parish of Paisley, stood the remains of the celebrated tree, called Wallace’s Oak, among the branches of which, when if full leaf, traditions affirms that our great patriot here concealed himself from the English. In transmitting this tradition, the popular voice, ever prone to exaggerate, has magnified it so much, as to assert that the branches afforded shelter, not only to Wallace, but also to 300 of his followers; the modified form of the narrative is surely sufficient to induce every true Scotchman to contemplate this monumental Oak with reverence. In the year 1825, the trunk measures 21 feet in circumference at the ground and 13 feet 2 inches, at 5 feet from the ground; it was 67 feet high, and the branches extended 45 feet east, 36 feet west, 30 south, and 25 north, covering together a space of 19 English poles.  Since that time, the dimensions of the tree have been much diminished partly through natural decay but chiefly by the cutting-off of portions, which are preserved in many a form, as mementoes of the indomitable supporter of his country’s independence; and in January 1856, it was blown down by a terrific storm of wind.

The storm came on ‘mid the darkness of night,

Fierce of the simoon in horrid delight,

The mountains did moan, and the glens howled wild,

Like the wail of a parent that’s lost her first child.

O’er the southern counties of Scotland, it swept,

Till the waves of Atlantic the storm fiend kept.

It raved o’er the land, till it dashed in the wave,

Who bound old Dolis, and mad him his grave.

Amidst those wild billows engulfing the coast,

The storm subsided, in the ocean was lost.

But oh! For its evils – the land where it trod

Seem’d smitten and blasted, forsaken by God!

‘T was fearful on the homes that it rent,

And the wailing and sorrow wherever it went.

Destruction and fury were felt in the blast,

And the ocean convulsed along as it past.

And Wallace’s Oak of five centuries old,

Torn down in that night, like that patriot bold

In the war of wild faction, his life it was spent,

In the war of the whirlwinds his oak it was rent,

A curse on the head of Monteith ever hung.

But these deeds by a better than me have been sung.

I rake not the ashes of time up to bring

The deeds of a traitor before you to sing;

But I wail for this “link of the past” pass’d away,

Connecting the present so many a day.

Tho’ shorn for relics, our brave chieftain’s tree,

‘T was a landmark of ages and precious to see.

The mountains of Switzerland sung William Tell,

That name like a watchword among them does well.

And Scotland loves Wallace, and well she may,

From ages to ages as time rolls away.

His camp[1] and his castle[2], his cairn, and cave[3],

As glorious memorials of Wallace we have,

His cradle[4] and chair[5], his stone[6]and his hill,

The fond antiquary pores over them still.

And when time shall reduce them low in the dust,

His name shall remain for old Scotland to boast.

---

[1] A field in the farm of Borland, above the village of Minngigaff, is still called “Wallace’s Camp,” where, in 1298, Wallace is said to have marched west to chastise the men of Galloway, who had espoused the party of the Comyns, and supported the pretentions of the English.

[2] In the parish of Airth, Stirlingshire, stands the castle or tower of Airth, known as “Wallace’s Castle,” for his having surprised and cut off an English garrison in it.

[3] Wallace’s cave near Lanark, on the road to Glasgow. His name is given to several localities there.

[4] On the hill of Cuckold Le Roy, near Linlithgow, are vestiges of a military station, and on the top is a cavity called “Wallace’s Cradle,” which is reported to have given shelter often to the patriot.

[5] In the mansion-house of Bonnington, in the parish of Lanark, is a heavy oaken seat, known for many generations as Wallace’s Chair, etc.

[6] His stone on the summit of a hill, a mile south-east of Callander Wood, 3 feet high, 1 ½ broad and 3 inches thick, near to which was fought the battle of Falkirk, 1289.

The Old Man’s Tale

In Fyvie lived a strange old man,

Whom Kennertte they did call,

The parish teacher, and he dwelt

Hard by the churchyard wall.

Much did he know of heathen lore,

And all its dark mythology,

Each cabalistic spell he knew

Of Satan demonology.

He knew each little wandering star,

Their influence and power;

Astrology he taught it well,

Within his dingy bower.

And somewhat further still he went;

He taught how spells could bear

A power to raise the evil one,

Of whom we stand in fear.

‘T was said that when the bell had pealed

The last long hour of night,

Oft was there seen around his house

A strange-like lurid light.

‘T was said that the benighted hind[1]

Oft heard unearthly sounds,

When passing that most dreaded place

Upon his wayward rounds.

‘T was told that from the sacred mound

Of the churchyard he’s take

Bones and strange things, of which he did

His incantations make.

Much was there said, but this was true –

He gave two lads to know

His myst’ries almost, but there still

Was something left to show.

On a certain day these young me tried

The lessons they’d been taught,

But in the absence of old Kennertte,

With horror it was fraught.

They raised the fiend of darkness, which

They had no power to lay,

The old man saw the school roof shake

And ran without delay.

For they had ta’en a little boy,

And stript him to the skin,

And to the fiend’s engulfing grasp

They were to throw him in.

But that young boy a mother had,

Religious, meek, and mild,

And thrice that morning ere he rose

She sained her only child.

In name of all the Sacred Three,

She blest her boy that morn:

And well it was, or well I ween

His days on earth were shorn.

Like lightening on the guizer’s eye

That fearful scene became,

Confusion indescribable

‘Mid sulphury scorching flame.

The night before when darkness drew

Her sable veil o’er all

The raven flapped his murky wing

Upon the churchyard wall;

And three times round the old bell tower

He flew with eerie scream;

The boding owlet joined his flight,

And stupefied did seem;

And from Saint Mary’s dreary pot

A fearful cry arose,

And those who hear that deafening yell

Deem’d their days at a close.

And many a steed in stable bound

That night did stamp the ground,

Neighing as if in battlefield,

And nought but foes around.

Bur to our tale. Old Kennertte ran

Until he reached the door:

He saw what qualm’d his heart to see

Encircled on the floor

He stamped upon the yawning ground,

The fiend soon disappeared,

And since that awful period

Has ne’er been seen or heard;

And the poor child with saintlike face,

Was rescued from his hold:

His mother’s prayers were held through grace,

As in the days of old.

The wild youths were rebuked, I trow,

They never sought again

To raise a fiend, they did not know

A power they could not reign.

Such is the moral of our tale:

Arouse no unknown power;

Be sure you – ere – you raise the gale

Can rule the whirlwind’s power.

---

[1] I have to say this phrase intrigued me. Did a bit of a search and found it in a book: The Macabre Megapack: 25 Lost Tales from the Golden Age

By Erckman-Chatrian, Villiers de L’isle-Adams, Lafcadio Hearn, Moritz Jokai, Emma Embury, Luise Muhlback … In a story called ‘The Strange Ormonds” by Leitch Richie 1833. I think it measn an unfortunate ploughman.

The Burial of a Celtic Chief

‘T was night amid the forest gloom,

When the silver moon arose,

And shed a faint and mellow light,

Strange deeds for to disclose.

Old is our tale, and long gone past,

Even the green earth has change’d

To cornfield where forests stood,

And Celtic cattle rang’d.

‘T was Autumn and the smh’in feast[1]

Of Druid worship past –

That sacred feast, ‘mong Celtic tribes,

Observ’d down to the last.

We’ve said ‘twas Autumn, and the scene

Of what’s to follow, stood

In a lone glen near Ythan’s stream,

“Mid a primeval wood.

A Celtic chief for glory fam’d

Had died; and on that night

His funeral pile rose by a well,

Shown in the pale moonlight.

‘T was ever by the “crystal well,”[2]

Where purest water rose,

That such mysterious rites were done

To friends as well as foes.

But to our tale, that funeral pile

Was built upon a mound

Of earth and stones collected there,

Such as could best be found.

And many a fragrant herb and root

Was laid upon that mound;

And incense sweet perfumed the air

For many a yard around.

Then came the Druid priests, in robes

Pure as the driven snow;

They two-and-two together come,

And chaunt hymns as they go.

And wild and high the thrilling strains

Rose, through dark green wood;

And three times round that funeral pile

They wended, ere the stood.

Then turning to the eastern sky,

Where the pale moon appeared,

They mutter o’er their mysteries,

The gods alone these heard.

Then spoke the hoary-headed bard,

In accents loud and clear

A long oration on that chief.

Laid low upon his bier.

And all his mighty deeds were told,

The battles he had won;

His power to tame the wildest steed

That through the forest ran.

His justice to his fellow-men,

His honour to the gods,

How, through this rite of worship, he

Would reach their bless’d abodes.

Then rose the prophet and declar’d: -

‘Heaven’s judgement still will be

Upon the guilty, who rebel

Against its high decree.

“But Flannis[3] happy hunting isle

Is ever for the brave,

And the departed spirits there,

Did joy beyond the grave.

“The gods require a sacrifice,

Man’s guilt for to atone,

That sacrifice is offered now

Upon the Cromlach stone.

“I saw the holy fire consume

That sacrifice today;

I saw the winged soul depart

From out its flame away,”

Then rose the old Arch-Druid, who

Was kneeling all the while,

And threw a lighted torch he had

Upon the funeral pile.

Then rose a murmur from that mass

Of living beings round;

Then rose the clang of deaf’ning gong

And trumpets shriller sound.

And as the garish flames burst forth,

Each threw upon the bier

A branch of oak, or hazel bough

Or wild rose of its brier,

These tokens to departed friends,

‘T was said were borne away

To Flannis, by their late gone chief,

Upon his funeral day.

And when the smouldering fire was low,

Each Druid gathered round,

Collecting all the aches which

Asbestoe’s robe had bound.

They put them in a cistern there,

Hewn from a large oak tree,

And laid them in their mother earth,

The fate of all to be.

And now that many a century

Has fun their fitful round,

These ashes are disclosed to view,

 And that rude coffin found.[4]

---

[1] The smh’in , or as it is pronounced sawin, feast to place in November, and from it came Hallowe’en, all matters were then adjusted between man and man by the Arch-Druid, against whose decision there was no appeal.

[2] Well worship, in Asia, Africa and North America, water sheds and sources of streams, in elevated situations, have, at all times, been reverenced as sacred spots, and the native tribes are wont to assemble at them for their religious festivals, thus, also the Romans and the original inhabitants of Switzerland, before them, worshipped at the high springs of the Alps, on the Luckmamer, perhaps on the Benardis, and undoubtedly, on the St. Gothard, and on the Great St Bernard, where pillars and remains of temples may still be found; two rude pillars, whose origin is as yet unexplained, standing at a height of 7,000 feet in the water shed of the Julian pass, seem to point to a yet earlier worship of the deity.

[3] Fl’hanes. It is strange the name given by the Druid, meaning Heaven, should still be the same in Celtic and Efruin, the opposite, or Isle of extreme cold.

[4] Mr. McQueen, contractor, Towie, when making a road near towie, came upon an oak coffin, rudely constructed; the boards, or rather planks, were about four feet long, by two wide, and in thickness from two to three inches. The lid, which was od softer wood, was mouldered down within, and there were five or six large stones placed round it – it lay south and north; and on the west side was the mound, where the funeral pile had been.

The Fairy Knowe

‘T was flowery May, the sun had sunk

Down in the western wave,

Beyond Iona’s sacred isle,

Where kings sleep in their grave;

And the fair moon shone around the knowe,

With soft and mellow beam,

While o’er the field and flood, and Towie’s wood

Echoed the howlet’s scream.

I mused upon that wild-some cry,

By ancient towers oft heard;

When round the Fairy Know in form

A garish band appear’d;

And foremost in that cavalcade,

On palfrey fair and small,

Rode the fair Queen of Elfinland,

With myriads at her call.

Bards have portrayed her majesty,

Supremely grand and fair,

Perfections cast in beauty’s mould,

A sight to mortals rare.

That splendid bow in summer cloud,

Spanning the vault of heaven,

Is oft brought down in simile,

As if to bards but given.

The sun in all his summer strength;

The moon round as a shield;

And all the studded stars of heaven,

A like taxation yield:

These are material; but the bow,

The child of sun and shower,

Nurst on the breast of thunder-cloud

Gone in the passing hour

That’s immaterial. So was she

The offspring of the thought,

Surcharg’d with veneration,

Which ideality wrought.

But to our tale. Her Majesty

Paus’d quick and thus did say –

“Who dares to dwell on our weirded Knowe?

Kemp,[1] go warn him away.”

“No,” cried Catena,[2] “let him dwell

On that same weirded Knowe,

And to each ill that’s incident

To frailty he shall bow.

“I’ll bring the curse of poverty

On him and all his race,

And dire disease it’s forerunner

Shall harbour in that place.

“If he shall have one only friend,

I’ll sweep that friend away;

The last’s the worst that can befall

The creature of a day.”

‘T was done; and since that fated night

Disease has ever been

A dweller on that Fairy Knowe,

To every neighbour seen.

  

---

[1] Kemp, an old Scots word, meaning Champion.

[2] Catena, the Greek term for fate, meaning a chain or necessary series of things.

Mitchell’s Cairn

There is a Strath, by Ythan’s stream,

As fair as one could wish to see,

Old Auchterless thy “how” does seem,

The fairest of the fair to me.

I love to see thy old Churchyard,

The trees which darkly wave around,

Hard is that heard that won’t regard

“God’s-Acre” as most sacred ground.

More so when those that gave us birth

Like mouldering in its holy mound,

And hoping when the cares of earth

 Are over, there we shall sleep sound.

And there was one upon a time,

Tradition tells; if it tells true,

Forbade to rest there for the crime

Of Fratricide, the darkest hue.

That tale is old, but let me tell

The scanty portion which I heard;

Two brothers in that strath did dwell,

By pious parents they were rear’d –

And when they up to manhood came,

A deadly feud there arose,

‘The green-eyed monster,” (true that name),

The harbinger of human woes

Sprang up; and Jael like the one,

Watched while the other lay asleep,

Then plunged that fated nail within

His brother’s temples far and deep.

Then spread a rummer through the land,

Then rose a murour men among,

Which raised on high the weakest hand

To call for vengeance wild and strong.

Then men were gather’d far and near,

Such was the custom of that age,

To touch the body on its bier, -

And in it that trial all engage.

But there was one of darksome mood

Observ’d that solemn rite in fear,

While at a distance lone he stood,

Even from his brother’s bloody bier.

There’s something in the conscience still

Of the most hardened sinner found,

Condemning all those deeds of Ill

Which through their past lived did abound.

That something still in Mitchell’s breast

Was lurking; and he wished to be

Far off, when called to by the priest,

To touch the bier that he might see,

The last man there perform that rite

To justice and the dead man due;

When lo! The festering wound in sight

Of heaven and earth, did bleed anew.

Then horror ran through all that crowd,

Depicting every face with fear,

As, slow and solemn, yet aloud,

The priest spake out, beside the bier.

“Thou art the man; and heaven wills

That blood shall never silent be,

Since Abel’s ran in burning rills

And called for its most just decree.

“Thou art the man; and thou shalt die

 A violent death from out the land,

That this fair earth no longer be

Doom’d by the blood that’s on thy hand.

“Thou art the man; and thou hast marr’d

God’s image in thy brother’s blood;

Let all men know thou art debarr’d

Henceforth from holy Church’s good.

“Thou art the man; and such a crime,

Here ne’er was perpetrate before;

And, O’ Heaven, grant through coming time

That it be never heard of more.”

They doomed that murderer to death; -

A cruel death, - by horses tore,

His mangled limbs lay on the earth

A fearful sight in gloated gore!

One quarter at the Lesburn laid

In dust, I trow, this hundred year,

Yet of at night there it is said

Strange sights at times do still appear.

Another they have carried down

East of Smallburn half a mile,

“The Ga-i Gate” beyond that town,

Unknown now through culter’s till.

And they have buried the remains

By the wayside, where nought may ern

Their long repose – and from the plains

They gathered stones and placed his cairn.

That cairn’s gone but still the name

Holds to that place as far’s I learn,

Has been and will be still the same,

Tradition’s landmark – Mitchell’s Cairn.

I could never ascertain the date of the above cruel and bloody tragedy, but tradition is current in the quarter.

 Death of Lord Haddo, A Ballad

‘T was noon and brightly shone the sun

Upon the braes o’ Gight,

And lithely sang the merlin gay,

In the clear shining light.

And there still when the spring returns;

Oft is she heard and seen;

And round the rock of ages still

There clings the ivy green.

And many a hawthorn bush and brier,

And many a fair moss rose

Grew there, as now, in summer tide: -

But hark a tale of woes!

Lord Haddo oft a hunting went

Among these rocks so wild,

Well could her rein the restive steed,

When he was but a child.

And when he up manhood grew,

His fellow ne’er was seen,

So firm he sat on rampant steed,

Through copse and dingle green.

From clift to clift his steed would bound

Where but the quarry flew;

Oft would he ford the red river,

Where none dare follow through.

But to our tale – his Lordship had

A wicked steed and cross,

And few e’er did mount that steed,

But came off at a loss.

‘T was noon, we said, and twice that day,

Lord Haddo on the green,

Essay’d to mount that restive steed,

Wilder than e’er he’d been.

The second time he champed and foam’d,

And reared backward, fell

Upon his Lordship who was kill’d,

Woe that we’ve such to tell!

His lady from her window saw

That fearful sight of woe,

And frantic ran, and wildly cried,

“Oh, go for Milne – go.”[1]

“Where’s Miller?[2] Oh, tell him to run,

He’ll run as swift as the roe,

And bring Milne here without delay,

Myself the way will show.”

Her gown of Barcelona silk

Up round her waist she drew,

And with the speed of a wounded doe,

Down through the wood she flew.

Her hair was streaming in the wind,

As through the wood she ran;

And when she met with Milne she cried,

“Oh, come as quick’s you can.

“This once exert your skill,” she cried,

“This once exert your speed:

I’ll show you where my lord does lie,

I fear he will be dead.”

The doctor ran and tried his art,

But tried that art in vain;

Life – that mysterious principle –

When gone, ne’er comes again.

Night came, and threw his sable veil

Around the house of Gight;

Reason forsook that lady’s brain

Long e’er the morning light.

Her gentle heart, too finely strung

For such a scene as this,

Was rent – delirium came –

Which ended but in bliss.

Oh, many a hearth is desolate

That lady’s bounty warmed.

And many a hear long cold as here,

That lady’s goodness charm’d.

And now the weeds wave I the wind[3]

Upon that mouldering wall,

And desolation reigns supreme

Around Gight’s ruined Hall.

---

[1] At the period of this melancholy affair, there was no doctor nearer than Oldmeldrum or Aberdeen. This old man, however, let blood and administered physic in his day and neighbourhood, and resided at a distance of about two miles from the house of Gight.

[2] This individual kept cows and was a big heavy man; but the good lady, in her trying circumstances, never thought of the many fleet steeds in the stable, standing idle, which would have been there and back before Miller was half way.

[3] Since the above melancholy accident, which took place about 1792, the house has been suffered to go to decay, and now all that remains are pieces of walls overgrown with ivy. Scotland, however, cannot produce finer scenery than lies around. There are to be seen oaks a century old, gigantic rocks, and deep ravines, amid which the rive Ythan glides softly and smoothly along, presenting a scene which has wiled many a traveller off his way.

The Ghost of Bairnsdale.

Revised

There liv’d a widow at Bairnsdale,

I’ve heard old people say,

And a grizzly ghost came to her door,

Ilk morning lang ere day.

He would not gang awa frae her

For shout nor yet for cry –

Till she would send her two braw sons

To see where he did lay.

The widow grew sick and very sick, -

And sick and like to die, -

She sent for her two beardly sons

To speak wi’ her speedily.

Then in it came, her auldest son

Wi’ mass book on his breast,

And said “what ails my mother dear,

You ken well I’m a priest.”

And in it came, her second son,

Wi’ mass book on his arm,

And said “what ails you mother dear,

Gweed shield your life frae harm.”

I’ve lang been widow o’ Bairnsdale,

And liv’d upon this lay –

And the grizzly ghost comes to my door

Ilk morning lang eve day.

He win’na gang awa frae me,

For shout or yet for cry –

Till ye take his bones to holy ground

Fra’ hole in whilk they lie.

Ye’ll quietly go the parish o’er,

And call at ilky town;

Tell them to meet at “Saint Mary’s Kirk’

The morn by sundown.

Ye’ll wile eleven stalwart men

To search the woods a roun’

Until ye come to the fearful spot

His body was put down.

And ye maun take eleven gray hounds

Can bark and bit fu’ well, -

To warn ye when ye come to the spot

Where his murdered body fell.

They gather’d the men to Saint May’s Kirk,

Ant the staunch sluch hounds also, -

And Ardlogie’s wilsome braes,

Nor m air be seen or heard.

They sought him up the Fernie bank,

And down the Fernie brae;

But in the den o’ Dinnie lair

His murder’d body lay.

O mark and moonless was the night,

And loud the dogs did bark,

When they came to that evil place,

Where he was seen when dark.

O loudly bayed the good blood hounds,

As soon as they came near;

And then the grizzly ghost, I true,

Right awesome did appear.

“Ye’ll go you down and farther down,

To the fit o’ you green-wood tree;

And there you’ll find my body laid

Where Warstling murdered me.”

I’ve stood into “Saint Mary’s Kirk door,”

Heard my name cursed thrice,

And a’ for a pair o’ dog-skin gloves,

Three ha’pennies was the price.

Ye’ll bury me mong Christian muils

AS son as ever ye can,

And I’ll never come back to Bairnsdale

To fear either woman or man.

They’ve buried him by “Saint Mary’s Kirk,”

Near to Saint Mary’s quier,

And he never was seen at Bairnsdale

Man, nor woman to fear.

Note:  I am not aware that the above was ever in print; however, it would be a pity to suffer such a fine old tradition to die out. There may be other versions of it, as there are about all other oral things of the kind. The lady from whom I heard it had almost forgot it;

But, from the detached pieces, I made an attempt to string it up and try to preserve it from the fate of too much of the same kind. I am at a loss with some of it, namely, the dog-skin gloves; but in our days of progress, it will be all termed a hum. Query – Whether it is safer to believe too much or too little?

 The Phantom Army

An old man sat by our fireside,

When cold the north wind blew,

He shook the icels from his hair,

When in the seat he drew.

That hair had once been glossy black,

But now turned silver grey,

And like the sere leaves on the tree,

Ready to fall away.

But in his eye there still was fire,

And into his speech a power

Which I remember, though a child,

Unto this very hour.

For as that winter evening wore,

He told us many a tale

Of bygone times when manners rude

‘Mong mankind did prevail.

One tale he told, which yet remains

Imprinted on my mind;

A dark strange tale, and thirty years

Leaves it the same, I find.

The Tale

‘T was four years after Sherriffmuir,

A strange like site was seen

By many a one, both old and young,

Near to the place of Skene.

‘T was January and clear the sky,

At eight hours on that day,

A phantom army came in view,

Marching in field array.

High polish’d was each culverin.

And furbished was each gun;

They like the liven from the cloud

Gleam’d in the morning sun.

Seven thousand doughty warriors,

There stood upon that ground,

Drawn up in battle’s stern array,

And, strange without a sound.

No bugle sounded on that morn

Its wild notes round the hill,

No drum’s wild deef’ning clang was heard,

For all was hush’d and still.

But, suddenly, that fearful host

Fell down upon the ground,

And all at once sprang up again,

But still without a sound.

Their leader on a snow-white steed

Rode up their bristling front,

And seem’d to marshal that strong host

Just as old Generals wont.

But none could hear a word he spoke,

And none dare venture near,

For all seem’d spellbound to the spot

That morn through perfect fear.

They saw each little drummer lad

In marching order come,

A broad-sword dangl’d by his side,

And on his back the drum.

They saw that army march away,

As if for Aberdeen,

Until old Stockert’s-hill forbade

That they should more be seen.

Again, October’s blasts had blown

The leaf from off the tree,

When Lo! Another army came

Marching across the lea.

Two thousand men in armour clear

Again, took up the ground,

And like the former army still

‘Mong then was heard no sound.

Their ensigns like the snowy cloud,

Float in the fitful breeze,

And you could mark each stern face,

There as they stood at ease.

And right and left their exercise,

They like the lightning wheel;

As each evolution past,

Like lightning gleam’d their steel.

For bright and clear shone out the sun,

‘T was three hours after noon,

And there that phantom army stopt

Until that he went down.

At one time all that fearful host

Lay down upon the ground,

Then roll’d the smoke along their line,

But still was heard no sound.

And when that visionary cloud

Roll’d off upon the air,

They stood again in stern array,

A spectre army there.

When forward rode their leader bold,

White horse and sabre clear;

Along that line he bravely went,

While people stood in fear.

When at sundown away they pass’d,

As if for Bridge of Dee,

While hundreds met that phantom host

And did that vision see.

We’ve heard of demon frigate sail

Around the Cape of Storms,[1]

And all her horrid spectre crew,

As well’s their fearful forms.

We’ve heard that when the thunder roar’d

And when the lightning flew,

That she would stem the highest sea,

Where none dare follow through.

We’ve hear, too, that she ne’er appear’d

But to the doomed barque;

And the she’s loom upon the wind

As soon as it grew dark.

And round and round the fated ship

She’d sail in horrid glee,

And paralyse the strongest heart

That ever sail’d the sea.

All this we’ve heard, but ne’er before

Heard of a Spectre band –

And twice, too, in one year be seen

In my auld dear Scotland.

Great yearly fair heild at Old Aberdeen, was seen by mony hundreds of people going home, as well as by above thirty that war at their owen houses, about half-a-mile distant.”

THE DEMON FRIGATE. – This is an allusion to a well-known nautical superstition, concerning a fantastic vessel, called by sailors, the Flying Dutchman, and supposed to be seen about the latitude of the Cape of Good Hope. She is distinguished from earthly vessels by bearing a press of sail, when all others are unable, from stress of weather, to show an inch of canvass. The cause of her wandering is not altogether certain; but

The general account is, that she was a vessel originally loaded with great wealth, on board of which some horrid  act of murder and piracy had been committed; that the plague broke out among them who had perpetrated the crime, and that they sailed in vain from port to port, offering, as the price of shelter, the whole of their ill-gotten wealth: that they were excluded from every harbour for fear of the contagion which was devouring them, and, as a punishment, doomed to sail for ever, etc. – Scott, Note to Rokeby.

  

[1] The Cape of Good Hope was termed the Cape of Storms.

Note to the Above: There is a curious letter in the charter chest at Monymusk, giving an account of two visions seen at Whitemyres, from which the following extracts are taken. “The first was on the twenty-ninth of Januarie last (1719), att eight houres in the morning, there appeared ane army computed to be the number of seven thousand men. This computation was made by a very judicious man, who had been long a souldier at Flanders, and is now a farmer here, who, with about thirtie other persons were spectators. This army was drawn in a long line in battle array, ware seen to fall down to the ground and start up al att once, thair drums ware seen to be carried on the drummers’ backs. After it remained more than two houres, a person on a white horse rode along the line, and then they all marched toward Aberdeen, where the hill called Stockett tooke them out of sight. It was a clear sunshine all that morning.

“The second was on the twenty-first of October last, upon the same ground, about two thousand men appeared, with blue and white coatts, clear arms, glancing or shining white ensignes, were seen to slap down, as did the former, at which time a smoke aperid as if they had fired, but no noise. A person on a white horse also rode along the line, and then they marched off toward the Bridge of Dee. This continued from three houres in the afternoon till it scarce light to see them. It was a clear fine afternoon, and being the same day of ...

A Dream

I dream’d a dream the other night,

And thought and thought I wander’d near old Gight,

‘Mong scenery wild as Alpine steeps,

Where holly grows, and ivy creeps.

‘Mong rocks so high as if they’d burst

Their barren heads, and nature thrust

Them headlong down with awful crash,

And bush and tree to atoms dash.

Those fearful rocks high as the Heaven,

With awful fissure through them riven,

Where water gushed out into streams,

Seem’d crystallised the moon’s pale beams.

The lofty oak so majestic and grey

Seem’d to motion the Druids of former day

To renew their spells, and vigil keep,

While the waning moon shone over the deep.

That deep dark river that runs beneath,

Looked torbid and drear, and dark as death.

When a wind arose which swept the glen,

And voices comingled as ‘twere of men

In the last rage of battle’s roar,

In unknown tongues, on a foreign shore.

That night, till now, seem’d holy and still,

With nothing to be heard save the fox on the hill.

The fox on the hill, and owl in the glen,

And the hoarse screaming heron at times in the den.

At times in the den the dead silence he’d wake,

As he wing’d his way slowly adown by the brake.

But away he did fly at that terrific scream,

The owl too, was silent, and showed her distress

By seeking her cave, and its inmost recess.

The fox with a howl swept through the fern,

While alone I would stand to see what I’d learn.

But genius falters, descriptions at bay,

My knowledge abortive and what shall I say.

Shade of the mighty, perhaps you are near,

How often in childhood you’ve wandered here.

A Scott and a Southey could boast of a name,

A Wordsworth and Tennyson grapple with fame,

But Lord George Gordon Byron unravell’d appears

Past, present, and future, ’mid the rolling years.

The soul of that noble could sport with its woes,

Which would wither to nothing its fiercest of foes.

Like the blaze of the meteor which shines from afar,

Sweeping from space and consuming its car

By the force of its fire; so, thy mighty mind

Hath past, and hath left not its equal behind.

Such thoughts came across me, and in my dream

I thought that the ghost of his lordship did seem

To pass in that storm, so fearful and loud,

That the rushing of winds seem’d rending the cloud.

His face like the beam of a moon in a mist,

Indistinct to the eye, and gone ere I wist,

The appearance was lofty, terrific, and grand,

Like whirling od vapour at morn o’er the land;

When the rains of the autumn sweep over the plain,

And the surges roll heavy across the dark main:

When darkness o’er shadows the land and the sea,

And thunder does roar, and lightning goes free,

When the trees of the forest are shiver’d and rent,

And nature convuls’d, its resources near spent;

When man like an atom in that dreadful war

Is dash’d on the ground and is driven afar.

So was I overpower’d when a voice as he past,

Loud, deep and long, above the fierce blast

Cried, “harden the steel, let be graven and read,

The living’s disdain’d, honour’s but for the dead.”

The howl of the tempest ‘mong the rocks of Blairfoul

At the top of its fury put forth such a howl,

That with fear I awoke, and thankful to know

That is was but a dream, like existence below.

The Holy Well[1]

Have you seen the old well sanctifi’d

By monkish priests so grey;

And built to receive the off’rings given

On the first Sabbath of May.

There’s such a well by Ythan’s stream,

Tho’ its powers be past away,

 For none goes now to drink therefrom

On the first Sabbath in May.

Yet pure as ever that pearlie stream,

And they gush to the present day

As pure’s they’ve done for a thousand years

On the first Sabbath in May.

And there are still each little place

Where they were wont to lay

Each off’ring left when they drank therefrom

On the first Sabbath in May.

And bare as the rocky mountain top

Those offerings had been;

The smallest coin or piece of cloth,

It’s colour blue or green.

And I have seen an old shoe shod

Nail’d to the growing tree

As mariners are wont to do

Who sail a stormy sea.

Oh! Poor though my “auld Scotland’s” been

Yet under the “Hoddan grey”

Many a leal heart beat, I trow,

For freedom in their day.

But to our tale, the Holy Well

Was sanctifi’d for all,

And whosoever has dire disease,

‘T was ever at their call.

Methinks I see the mother come,

Her infant child she’d lay

On that green bank, and lave its limbs

On the first Sabbath of May.

And o’er its weary worn limbs

She’d drop the water’s spray,

Beseeching her God to spare its life,

On the first Sabbath in May.

That simple plan perform’d in faith

Might do, ‘tis hard to say

As well’s more complicated cures

On the first Sabbath in May.

And the Sharger[2] stone of power,

Found still near such a place;

Much was there done by them, I trow

Old chronicles do trace.

And duly every Sabbath morn,

Before the matin’s bell,

The holy font was fill’d I trow,

From out the holy well.

‘T was brought by hands of good sacert

In silver chalice clear,

To sprinkle every penitent

When the benison they’d hear.

It kept the evil one, they said,

From his thoughts far away,

But more so when the rite was done

On the first Sabbath in May.

That is not near a thousandth part

For which each holy well

Was us’d to by those simple men

Which then on earth did dwell.

Oh! Who has had disease entail’d

Upon his mortal frame.

But wish’d for a draught of pure water

That from such places came.

---

[1] All these old churches had their wells attached and were under the patronage of the saint to whom the church or chapel was dedicated, and in many parts of the country, the wells only now exist, where not a stone is left of the old walls standing!

[2] The Sharger stone was used at Paul’s well in this parish (Fyvie) not eighteen years ago, and as the proceedings may amuse some, I shall give them as near as I can. The child was brought on the “first Sabbath of May” by two women, and the stone, a long ”Scot’s ell,” was poised at one end upon another, and a man held up the other end, and while the women gave above and received below the child three several times, and then a lock of its hair was cut and buried below the stone, and after a good washing with the water from the well, the rite was concluded. The last part of the proceedings unquestionably the best.

Ell= 37 inches

Suggested on Seeing Queen Mary’s Casket

Yestreen the Queen had four Marys

The night she’ll has but three;

There was Mary Beaton and Mary Seaton,

And Mary Carmichael and me.

                                                       Old Ballad.

Yestreen I saw three costly gems,

So precious and so rare,

That Scotland’s royal diadem

But wi’ them may compare.

One was a casket strange to see,

Inlaid with precious stone;

Four topazes well burnished

Its cover lay upon.

And four of Scotland’s richest stones,

Show’d lapidary’s art,

Clear as the dew-drop polished

On each side held a part.

They said ‘twas once fair Mary Stuart’s

That gem of relics clear,

And when I thought on Fotheringay,[1]

I trow, I dropped a tear.

I saw that lady’s looking-glass,

Set in an ivory stand,

Old was its carving and, I trow,

‘T was done in foreign land.

I thought upon her “Four Marys,”

Whose fairy forms had been

Reflected oft in that mirror,

As well as Scotland’s Queen.

And fated Mary Livingston,

The fairest of that four,

Lost fame, lost fortune, and her life

In an unguarded hour.

A curse hangs o’er the villain’s head,

A woe clings round his heart,

Who would deceive this innocent

Through flattery’s baneful art.

But to our tale; what next, I saw

Belonging Scotland’s Queen,

Her cabinet inlaid with wood,

The richest ere was seen.

Thereon was seen the grey goshawk,

Each feather you could tell;

A gentle bird he seem’d, I ween,

And hung his silver bell.

Oh! Many a leaf and garish flower

Swept round that panel old,

And all so highly burnished,

It shone like beaten gold.

Age maketh all thing venerable,

Whatever they may be;

But aught belonging Queen Mary

Is ten times so to me.

---

[1] Fotheringay Castle, Northamptonshire, built in 1408, demolished by James1  (this should be James VI & I !!). Here was born Richard 111 of England, 1443, and Mary, Queen of Scots, was beheaded privately, Feb., 8, 1589, aged 44, and after eighteen years imprisonment.

The Grave of Ossian

Note: In the line of the military road from Stirling to Inverness, is the Clach-na-Ossian, supposed to mark the burial place of the gifted sun of Fingal. About three miles from this in the corrivarlich of glen of thieves, is a large cave known by the name of Fians of Fingal’s cave. Selma, in Morven, which is said to have been Fingal’s chief residence, is about 60 miles distant from Glen Almond. Newte, who travelled through this district in1791 says, “I have learned that when Ossian’s stone was moved, and the coffin containing his supposed remains discovered, it was intended by the officer commanding the party of soldiers employed on the military road, to let the bones remain within the stone sepulchre in which they were found, until General Wade should come and see them, or his min. be known on the subject. But the people of the country for several miles round, to the number of three or four score of men, venerating the memory of the bard, rose with one consent, and carried away the bones, with bagpipes playing, and other funeral rites, and deposited with great solemnity, within a circle of large stones, on the lofty summit of a rock, sequestered and of difficult access, where they might never more be disturbed by mortal feet or hands, in the  wild recesses of the western Glen Almond.

This is very interesting! I’ve Googled Ossian worth a look at… the poems are said to be the work of one James McPherson (1736 -1796) and based on ancient Irish Celtic stories.  Have a read of what’s out there and judge for yourselves! Sounds to me as if our old ancestor believed it all!

Oh! Where may rest the weary bones

Of the fated sons of song,

Whose powerful souls could cheer the minds

Of those they liv’d among.

Glen Almond Clach-na-Ossian, held

For many a long, long, year,

A large grey stone, mid wild scenery wild,

Far from his Selma dear,

Mark’d out the spot where lay the bones

Of Fingal’s gifted son,

Old Ossian, a chief of Scotia’s bards,

And prince of all that’s gone.

But Southern soldiers came and moved,

That stone of centuries old,

Disclosing his remains, of which

Strange tales were often told,

Then rose the people, far and near,

And gather’ round that stone

To bear his bones away, where they

Might rest in peace alone.

Then rose the coranach’s doleful sound,

So piercing, wild, and shrill,

For many a clansman as he went

Across that gloomy hill.

Then stream’d the tartans in the wind,

And loud the minstrels play,

Their loudest wail I trow, was heard

Upon that funeral day!

Amid the solemn sound of woe

They bore his bones along,

Up to a lofty rock where they

Laid down that “son of song.”

In midst a circle of grey stones

His ashes res alone,

Where feet may never desecrate

That old grey cromelach stone.

Oh! Ne’er in time shall Morven hear

A bard of Ossian’s power,

Son of the mighty, dost thou walk

Still when the tempests lower.

 To the Ocean

Sweep on, old ocean! As thou’st ever done

Since the creation of the glorious sun,

And light shone o’er thee, ere the Spirit moved

Upon thy surface like the blessed dove

Of Noah, when thy mighty flood of waters

Bore him alone safe with his sons and daughters:

For fifteen cubits, did thy death- fraught wave

Roll o’er the highest mountain peaks, which gave

A glimpse of hope or life to living creatures,

Comingled on each height, while, in their features,

Despair and terror held a fearful sway –

But they were doom’d, and all were swept away.

I know of nought so fearfully sublime;

For day and night, thou ever beatest time

By thy lone waves where’re they meet the shore;

In calm or blast, or tempest’s awful roar,

They’re ever sounding, and shall ever be

The Eternal’s image of eternity.

Time works his wonders in the shape of change

Throughout the earth, and some are rather strange:

Empires rise, and powerful kingdoms fall;

Babylon, Nineveh, and Tyre, where are ye all?

Change calls aloud, they are, and you may see,

Amongst the mutable that’s been, no more to be.

And ocean o’er thy bosom once proud Spain

Could send her fleets and sweep the German main.

And Britons chastise; but thy seething wave

Was, to the Spaniard, winging-sheet and grave.

These are thy doings, this thy mighty power

When put on man, the creature of an hour!

Oft have I seen thee in thy wildest mirth,

When storms convulsed the lowering Firth,

Wave after wave come rolling o’er the rock,

Shaking the trembling shore like earthquake’s shock;

And I have seen the hope of man cut short

When Boreas[1] reel’s in all his stubborn sport.

And Neptune joining the terrific roar,

His trident powerful strewed along the shore,

In war’s confusion, spar, beam and mast,

Twisted like straw in whirlwind’s sudden blast.

And who can think on that convulsive morn

When Britain from the neighbouring lands was torn,

And thy wild waves rushed madly in between,

When huge Mastodon alone had been

On some bluff headland, scanning near and far

The strange remains of that convulsive war.

And mighty Megatheron afraid to look

Upon the course thy foaming billows took;

No human footprints then defiled the land,

But beings now extinct, traversed the barren sand.[2]

And fearful monsters, as in olden time,

Are bred and nurtured amongst thy slime,

For they, like the old Ocean, do not change;

The great Sea Serpent yet does freely range

The watery waste as he has ever done,

‘Mong other creatures of the Torrid Zone.

Nay, where the cold winter holds an endless reign

In polar latitudes, thy icy plain,

Though bound in fetters nearly all the year,

And man. Poor biped, dares not to appear.

Yet there thy family spend their day, and fall

Like others on this great extended ball.

Oh, that like the old ocean, all would be

The praise of him who is Eternally!

---

[1] Boreas: Greek God of the North wind.

[2] Who can imagine those terrible convulsions which severed England from the coast of France, that stormy hour, when the sea rushed in between, when the mammoth and the mastodon stood moaning upon the severed cliffs? Who, that gazes on the sea, can for one moment doubt that such changes have taken place? – Illustrated London Almanac 1848.

The Mystery of the Winds

There’s a mystery in the zephyr’s breath –

A secret in the breeze –

And where’s the mind to grapple with

The blast upon the seas?

The breeze which fans the orange flower

Of sunny Sicily,

May sweep with unabated power

O’er Lapland’s forest tree.

The blast that raves round our blue hills

May cross the Western main,

And ripple Canad’s pure rills

Or sweep the prairie plain.

The wind that round our little cot

Incessantly doth wave,

In lands far distant from this spot

May fan a brother’s grave.

Yes! it may be for all we know,

The sea-boys locks may rise

Far. Far at sea, in the same blow

That wafts his mother’s sighs.

The old god Aeolus[1], in his cave,

Calls Boreas from the North,

Commanding him to raise the wave

And strew with wrecks the Forth.

Again, he bids his servants go

And bring the Western breeze;

With gentle breath the zephyrs blow,

Across the land and seas.

And as the Southern wind blows sweet

And soft o’er tower and tree,

The Eastern blast is cold and bleak

From off the German Sea.

‘T is all a mystery whence they come –

A secret where they go –

‘Mong other works proceeding from

A source which all should know.

The Simoon’s pestilential blast

That sweeps Sahara’s waste,

So often fraught with instant death,

Depends on his behest.

And when the fearful madd’ning blast

Sweeps swift o’er land and sea,

A shadow of his power is cast,

Who reigns eternally

He rides upon the roaring wind,

Floats in the calmest breath. –

The virtuous for ever find

That mighty God is death.

---

[1] Aeolus: Greek mythology Keeper of the winds

Lines Suggested on Reading the Life

And Remains of the Rev. Robert

Murray McCheyne.

Cold now’s that heart that oft beat high

For Israel’s long, lost greatness;

No more on Judah’s hills ‘twill lay,

And palpate through weakness.

Oh, no! That heart’s throe is past,

Perhaps for Israel’s beat the last!

And clos’d that eye in Death’s repose,

That swept o’er Salem’s city;

And saw each Hebrew’s foredoom’d woes,

But saw there none to pity.

No! none to pity, none to spare,

Nor hear nor heed a Hebrew’s prayer.

And mute’s that tongue for ever now

That oft the gospel message spoke

By riverside and mountain brow,

And many a sinful soul awoke

From deeds of darkness and of sin

Lurking the guilty soul within.

Oh yes, he’s gone; but still he speaks

By Bonar[1], in his holy strain,

To Britons, as to Jews and Greeks

Oh, that it may not be in vain!

And Scotland his remains by thee

Should be sent far o’er land and sea.

If there be one to sound on high

The glorious trumpet which he blew,

Which welcoming those afar off nigh,

But more especially the Jew;

Whose hills have heard that trumpet sound

Mount Gerizim[2] and mount Ebal round;

Then may they give “a certain sound,”

And, oh! may Jacob’s children gather

From all the distant nations round,

To worship Jesus and the Father.

Scotland alter of stones unhewn,

From thee may this last blast be blown.

---

[1] Andrew Alexander Bonar (29 May 1810 in Edinburgh – 30 December 1892 in Glasgow) was a minister of the Free Church of Scotland, a contemporary and acquaintance of Robert Murray M'cheyne and youngest brother of Horatius Bonar 

Bonar studied at Edinburgh; was minister at Collace, Perthshire, 1838 – 1856 (both in the Church of Scotland and the Free Church); and of Finnieston Free Church, Glasgow, 1856 till his death. He joined the Free Church in 1843, and was its moderator in 1878. He was identified with evangelical and revival movements and adhered to the doctrine of premillennialism. With Robert Murray McCheyne he visited Palestine in 1839 to inquire into the condition of the Jews there.^[1] During the visit of Dwight L. Moody to Britain in 1874 and 1875, Moody was warmly welcomed by Bonar, despite the latter receiving considerable criticism from other Calvinist ministers in the Free Church.      Andrew Bonar Law, the future British Prime Minister, was named after Andrew Bonar, whom Law's mother Eliza admired.

[2] Mount Gerizim is one of the two mountains in the immediate vicinity of the West Bank city of Nablus, and forms the southern side of the valley in which Nablus is situated, the northern side being formed by Mount Ebal.Wikipedia

Lines on the Death of a Young Student

Of Divinity

Thealkill miesh clach air du chairn.

“I will cast a stone upon thy cairn.”

Well would it become me my friend, for to cast

A stone on thy cairn, as I am the last

And the worst of the two, for I never could be

So gentle, so kind, so humble as thee.

Oh, Scotland my country how many a cairn

I’ve see to rise grey through the heath and the fern:

And many a battlefield, only new known

By the grey massive stones to the traveller shown.

These cairns for ages, like watch-towers, have stood

On field, hill and valley and many a wood

Hath reared its shadow as if to protect

What the men o’ the world despise or neglect.

But why this digression, and how shall I lay

One stone to thy cairn which before seemed grey;

For whoever knew thee this many a year,

Whose love and regret comes forth not in a tear!

I knew thee and lov’d thee, and ever will cherish

The fondest affection, which never may perish;

For time and its troubles will soon cease to be,

With all that’s connected within unto me.

“Whom the gods love die young” the philosopher said;

How true are these words, for in death have been laid

The best of our men, and the holiest too,

Are gone when we think they had most for to do.

A Welsh and a Chalmers, and godly McCheyne[1]

Are now with the past, among those who have been;

And lastly my friend, Alas! Thou’rt away,

When much was expected from thee in thy day.

If thy day had shone forth, as thy dawn did appear,

How glorious thy noon for many a year,

Would have been to thy country, thy church and thy God.

Bit we scan not the wisdom, we bow to the rod,

And submit to the stroke – Oh! If we could learn

To live that, when gone, some might add to our cairn.

---

[1] http://www.mcheyne.info/life.php

http://www.fdca.org.uk/McCheyne_Centenery1913.html

Lament for Lieutenant Robert Abercrombie

Cha tell me tullieth.

“I return no more.”

‘T is autumn – the trees of the forest are shaken,

And cold blows the wind, and hoarse is its roar;

But colder’s the heart which does not awaken,

And feel for the brave that return no more!

Ten moons have wan’d o’er our heath cover’d mountains,

Which are grey through old time and tempests of yore,

Since our chief left the land of clear-rushing fountains,

Alas! That he left to return no more.

To battle that despot our armies did gather,

And the bravest, I true, left old Scotland’s shore;

Though bleak be her mountains, still her red heather

Brings a sigh from the heart that returns no more!

And the brave Abercrombie, the young and the fearless,

Heav’d his last sigh ere the nettle was o’er;

As thoughts of a home, the wanderer peerless,

Arose with the view he’d return no more!

Like the mighty Sir Ralph, his great predecessor,

Whose death every soldier he had did deplore;

A country laments for his gallant successor –

The young Abercrombie returns no more!

Note: Lieutenant Robert Abercrombie, of the 93^rd regiment, was shot dead at the head of his company, at the battle of Alma, September 20, 1854. He was the third son of Sir Robert Abercrombie of Birkenbog, and chief of the clan. From this house descended through a junior line, the famous Sir Ralph Abercrombie.

 Info on Sir Ralph Abercrombie: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ralph_Abercromby

Death of a Drunkard’s Child

Robbie Burns, in mony a ditty,

Sweetly sings in whisky’s praise,

Sweet’s the sang, and mair’s the pity,

That on it he wad ware sic lays.       McNeill.

‘T was night, and the hovel dark and drear,

Where a drunkard’s child was lying,

Her last on earth, and her father near,

To see his poor child dying!

How solemn the council which she gave;

To abstain from the maddening glass,

The sequel does show how heaver did save,

And the strange way it came to pass.

She held in her worn hands a book

That a teacher had kindly given,

And well she did love it to look,

For it taught her the way to heaven.

That testament long to her had been

The star in her darken’d sky,

For there her saviour’s love she’d seen,

And found how in peace she could die.

Sleep came, and her weary eyes were seal’d,

Her pains for a time were still,

And she dropt the little book she held,

And had read since she was ill.

And all in that forlorn house were gone

To quench that hell-born thirst,

Which rag’d a volcano ever and anon,

In the poor drunkard’s breast.

He cring’d by the lonely bed of death,

And the demon of darkness came;

In the awful desire he held his breath,

His bosom still felt like a flame.

He took up the book of his dying child,

And he ran for the poison’d draught,

His thoughts they were strange, confused, and wild

With crime and guiltiness fraught.

‘T was sold, ‘twas drunk, and, strange to tell,

For the truth looks ever so;

When that deed was done he seem’d in hell,

And plung’d in abjectest woe.

Can there be a crime on earth like drink?

Oh, God of heaven, no,

Such a blight o’er the soul, and who can think

Of the distance ‘twill lead us to go.

When the child awoke, she look’d around.

But her dear little bookie was gone.

And she knew that on earth ‘t would never be found,

Oh, she felt herself sadly alone!

“O father,” she said, and she lifted her eyes,

They shone through a glistening tear,

“What answer have I to Christ when he says,

‘what’s come of your testament, dear?’”

He shook as the aspen shakes in the wind,

Such a home-thrust how can he bear,

So shaken in body, so racked in mind,

Till his feelings got vent to a tear.

He wept like a child, and said that if God

Granted grace to a poor cast-away,

While in life he determined to walk in the road

From which he so often did stray.

‘T was done, and the child again fell asleep,

A smile her sweet countenance bore,

‘T was her last on earth and her father did keep

His vow, till he reached that shore.

Where father and child together have found

The strength of a Saviour’s love,

Redeem’d from past sins, though they did abound

They’re cancell’d in heaven above.

Reader abstain, our passions are wild,

And our hearts are ever a prey

To the demon of darkness, a smooth-faced as a child,

Ever ready to bear us away.

The above incident was graphically told by Mr. J.B. Gough, at a lecture in Turriff.

 The Idiot’s Death

An idiot child grew to a boy,

And that boy to a man;

He knew no hope, no fear, no joy,

Nor the mighty Maker’s plan

Of man’s redemption all was void,

His mind seem’d chaos, and nought beside.

His life had been a weary blank,

For memory was not there;

Claim’d aught of that idiot’s care.

No fear for future woe nor want,

Ah, no! but them a kindly smile

Could break that blank at times a while.

Disease came on and there he lay

On his lone bed to die,

And one stood there in mocking mood

To watch his latest sigh;

That one a preacher term’d, but he

The power of preaching did not see.

Beside that lonely bed there stood

Some friends in act of prayer,

When raising his wither’d hand on high,

His faith did thus declare –

“There’s three in one, and one in thee,

And the middlemost one has saved me.”

Go, mock, you would be messenger

Of God’s eternal love:

Little you seek, and little you know

Of the power that’s from above.

Suppose you’ve read your bible o’er

Little you know of a spirit’s power.

The soul of that dying idiot,

Like a harp with broken strings,

The framework long as lumber lay

To the minstrel who sings

That harp was needed in that hour

To show its mighty maker’s power.

Yes, he who made that shatter’d harp,

Renew’d each trembling string,

To strike one dying note before

‘T was brought to heaven to sing.

Then who dare limit in that hour

The height and depth of Jesus’ power.

 The Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus[1]

‘T was dreadful the horrible cry that was heard,

From the sacred city all round;

Those tyrants the Romans were now to be fear’d

For the walls they were low with the ground.

And crash as a flood cometh in on the strand,

And terrifies those that are near;

So, came Titus’ legions, with sword all in hand,

Zion’s daughters had good cause to fear.

The Seer had long now ceas’d for to see

Under futurity’s mystical vail,

And the streets of the city had come for to be

The scenery of weeping of woe and of wail!

And dim was the eye of the beautiful maid,

Which once on a time was so clear –

And low down in Hinom[2] where thousands were laid,

With nought but the ground for a bier.

The pestilence sweeps from that low charnel vale,

And famine o’er spreads all round; -

There’s nought to be heard no but weeping and wail,

And corpses seem pil’t on the ground.

But oh, had they spar’d that sacred dome,

Where the God of the Hebrew’s did dwell, -

Where Judah to worship yearly had come,

For a space that none living can tell.

But woe to the Roman and woe to his hand, -

The shield and the buckler it bore, -

And woe to the thought that directed the brand,

That fir’d first that gate or that door.

Far, far was it seen by the Jew from his hills,

As the flame spread the buildings around;

And now might he think the scene of his ills

By this fatal catastrophe crown’d.

But no, there was something that yet was undone –

There were slavery, bloodshed and pains;

He’d to finish a weary life he’d begun

In a faraway land and in chains.

Reproaches and scorns been the Hebrews lot,

Long removed from his own native lands;

But Jerusalem by him is never forgot,

‘T is engraved as it were on his hands.

Accursed of man, but Lord not of thee,[3]

And persecuted oft to the last, -

But still ‘mong the nations that remnant we see,

Oh, think on their sorrows that’s past.

These sorrows and woes predicted of old,

One thousand eight hundred years,

Have swept o’er their tribes, from the young man so bold,

To the weak woman bathed in her tears.

Forgive and reclaim we beseech thee, O Lord,

And put it in each human heart,

To pray for the people, by thee once ador’d, -

And the people whose God still thou art.

---

[1] When Titus took the city and burned the Temple 1.100,000 Jews were destroyed during the siege.

[2] http://www.livius.org/articles/concept/roman-jewish-wars/roman-jewish-wars-4/?

[3] It would be impossible to state the millionth part of the persecutions undergone by that fated people; some, however, may be of use to those who are interested in their history. The first arrival of Jews into England was in 1079; to invoke the divine clemency of the solemnisation of the Passover, they were falsely accused of sacrificing a young lad of twelve years old, the son of a rich tradesman in Paris, by first whipping his flesh from his bones and then crucifying him: several were executed, and all the Jews plundered and banished France, 1180.  On the coronation of Richard 1, 1189; 500 who were besieged by the mob in York, cut each other’s throats to avoid the cruelties of the people; in London the population rose upon them for the usury of one man, and murdered 700 in 1262; in 1277, they were accused of crucifying a child at Northampton, for which 50 were drawn at the tails of horses and hanged, all the synagogues were ordered to be destroyed, 1282; all the Jews in England were apprehended in one day, their goods and chattels confiscated to the King, and they, to the number of 15,000 banished the realm, in 1286; 500,000 were driven out of Spain, and to the number of 150,000 out of Portugal in 1492; there was not a Jew on this island from 1610 to 1624; but it would fail one to enumerate the miseries of this people, the signs of the times, however, are altering and on Nov. 9, 1837, our gracious Queen knighted Mr. Moses Montefiore, the first Jew who has received that honour.  It was calculated in 1830tht there were scattered over the world about 3,20,000 souls, after all their persecution.

 Greatness.

High station does confer a greatness,

Few mortal man attains that;

Some through a long laborious life

Toils on and never gains that.

High and heroic deeds lay claim,

Even daring deeds of chivalry,

To Greatness, only but in name,

That sounds through battle’s revelry.

High gifts of intellect bestow

A Greatness which I covet;

Those who may feel bright genius low,

Should fan the flame and love it.

Wealth may confer a Greatness on

The mortal that can use it,

Aiding the poor misfortunate lone,

Such me rarely abuse it.

The Greatness of high aims are good,

Well worth all’s approbation;

The meanest kind, though ne’er so rude,

Should aim to raise his station.

And lastly there’s a Greatness in

Goodness past expressing;

He who forgives a brother’s sin

Against him that’s transgressing.

This Greatness may exist from all

The rest from which I’ve spoken;

Or with then ‘tis what wise men call

The mint-mark, Heaven’s token.

O! Grant us God-like goodness then,

Through heart and soul extending,

Heaven’s best gifts to fallen men –

A Greatness never ending.

Lines on Her Majesty’s Return to Balmoral

All hail to the mighty that comes from afar,

To reside on the banks of the Dee;

Let each chieftain assemble again at Braemar,

Earth’s mightiest sov’reign to see.

All hail to the queen of our ocean girt isle,

All hail to the queen of the world,

Wherever old Neptune o’er’s trident does smile,

There the banners of Britain’s unfurl’d.

Old Sol, in his glorious, unceasing career,

Never sets on her mighty domain,

From the time he commences the long-rolling year,

Till its last hour grasp his steed by the reign.

Then gather ye tribes from far-away west,

In your tartans so garish and grand,

Come, ye clans of the mountains, why, but ye haste

To the queen of your native Scotland.

We hail her as such, and thankful to see

The season arrive that she’s come,

A sojourner again on the ‘Banks of the Dee,’

At Balmoral, her own Highland home.

And though factions rage wild o’er the continent wide,

And the angel of death in their rear,

Let it be our glory, our honour, and pride,

That our sov’reign has nothing to fear.

Then hail to our Sovereign, and hail to the prince,

And hail to their children fair,

May heav’n, to the nations of earth still evince,

That they are its peculiar care.

Lines on the Return of Captain Gordon, of Fyvie

Welcome our chief! From the land of the sunny south;

Here though our mountains be barren and cold,

Our hearts they are warm, and grateful as buoyant youth,

Outs is the land where old legends are told.

Here though the orange trees

Scent not the evening breeze:

Here though the purple vine shed’s not its store,

Yet over hill and glen

Fyvie holds maids and men

Thankful you’re come from a far distant shore.

Though Madeira be famed for its health-giving powers,

And France for its beauty, its olive, and vine:

Yet the sweet dove of peace seldom visits their bowers,

And seldomer still she’s found to recline.

Here, though the tempest’s shock

Reaves round the rifted rock,

Here though the storm rave wild as the wave;

Yet when the storm is past,

Bright is the bow that’s cast,

Teaching the sender is able to save!

Come to the land then, of tempest and rugged hill,

Come to the land then of field and of flood;

Welcome, we say, to the land of the gushing rill –

Welcome, we say, to old Fyvie’s green wood;

And when the stirring chase

O’er the green hill takes place

Swift be thy steed, and his footing secure;

Rearing wild in the front,

As Gordons are ever wont,

Whether in chase or in battle dark lower.

Ceud mile failte[1], each matron and maiden

Shall sing to thy lady, when she does return;

With blessings of old and young she shall be laden,

Hoping such greeting she never will spurn;

And when that lady fair

Walks in the evening air,

Soft be the voice of winds as they blow;

Or, if she pleasure take

Over the glassy lake,

Clear be the bark’s sail, and buoyant her prow,

And now though the pibroch’s wild screaming numbers

Have ceased to be heard over mountain and vale;

And chieftain and clansman unite in their slumbers,

And bards too have ceased their coronach[2] and wail.

Now, though a mighty name

Rolls not through battle’s fame,

As it has done when contentions ran high:

Yet a good heart and kind

Can never fail to find

Its initials engraven through faith in the sky.

  

---

[1] A hundred thousand welcomes

[2] Coronach: a funeral song.

 To G---- L-----, ESQ.

“Amen to thee, O world, and a brave world thou art;

Disdaining to aid the beating heart but crowning the corpse’s brow.” – Keats.

A thousand thanks, eternally,

Sir I am ever due,

For what you’ve done, internally,

I’ll ever feel to you.

I’m your debtor for your letter,

While reason holds her throne;

Be sure Sir, tho’ poor Sir,

Your goodness I’ll think on.

Your stand in need of nought

On earth that I can do,

Which multiplies the weight,

Of what I receive from you.

But as Heaven Sir, has given Sir,

A genus unto me, -

Allow then, just now then,

Her services to thee.

I know your soul’s extended

Far o’er your fellow men;

The Sir, be not offended –

At what comes from my pen.

Ingratitude shall ne’er intrude,

Nor harbour in my mind –

But long ago perchance you know

I’m nothing of that kind.

A sort of retrospection,

Comes over me at times, -

Like a fearful interjection,

Which must not enter rhymes.

My people old are low and cold,

Co-mingling in the clay;

I recollect, with due respect,

Your goodness in their day.

The many books you’ve lent me,

To enlarge my little mind, -

As a gift from heaven sent me,

Which nowhere else I’d find.

Sincerely Sir, and clearly Sir,

I wish you for to see –

That for these too, you’ll please to

Accept of thanks from me.

‘T is not for such a soul as thine,

Flattery to receive or give, -

But friendship’s voice which is divine,

Through pure sincerity shall live.

Adieu to you then,

May heaven be your home;

That prayer is sincere

Wherever I may roam.

This is really interesting! It’s clear from the reading of these poems that James Gordon (1810-1860) was an intelligent and well-educated person. It would appear he had a mentor! I wonder who G.L. Esq. was and why he took such an interest in our ancestor!

 To My Little Daughter

Are thy young features like thy mother’s child,

Ada, sloe daughter alone of my house and heart?

Last when I saw thee, thy young blue eye smil’d;

But then we parted, not as now we part,

But with hope.        Byron.

Are thy young features like thy mother’s Jane,

Thy name’s the same, O may you be as kind

To me when poverty makes me complain,

And all its horrors beat me as the wind.

Amid a cold unfeeling world to be,

If thou art good, my child, ‘tis even all to me!

But then thy future weal or woe, my child,

Hangs o’er me like a very thundercloud;

And dark, too, as its wat’ry verge, emits so wild

The lightning’s awful glare and loud.

The doubling peal reverberating far and near,

Uncertainty itself, prompting the mind to fear.

For all I know, I may be brought to lay

The little frame among thy kindred dust;

I’ve seen such scenes in my short-lived day,

And may see more; but not on thee, I trust,

No! heaven forbid the stroke, but if it come,

I beg submission, yes, I must be dumb.

Perhaps. In after time, sorrow may fix

Its poison’d arrow fast in thy lone heart;

When I am gone, and you begun to mix

With selfish beings, there to act your part,

Then, if this nameless rhyme should hap to be

Within your reach, my child, remember me!

Well I remember the first cry you made!

(‘T is strange, when born, the human race all cry!

Born but to weep, live but to dream and lead

A life of disappointment until we die –

Pursuing happiness like the flickering beam

Of the waning moon on rippled stream.)

No seer wander’d forth that morn so bleak,

To scan the broad blue vault of heaven for thee,

Nor tax the stars thy future weal or woe to speak

That day a woman child was born to me.

No! you and I alike were poorly born.

And when we die as poorly, few will mourn!

It matters little for these things, if we

Be what we should be in our day and time,

The time will come when all we do or be

‘T will dream-like look, as this untoward rhyme;

But when that period comes may you and I,

My own dear child, be ready found to die.

I love thee much, and every night I cover

Thy little back, as has been done to me;

But now with me these things are all gone over,

And with those things that’s been, no more to be;

Yet it reminds me that when a child like thee,

That I had one to aid and cover me.

Then are thy features like thy mother’s Jean?

They say so and I’m thankful thus to see

Thy bright blue eyes, as hers hath been,

Though closed in death for ever more from me!

Yet I will teach you, child, to reverence

Her memory, whose you are in soul and sense!

 Poem on 2 Samuel ii. 19.

“Moreover, his mother made him a little coat….”

How thrilling tender are these words

Belonging to a mother;

Our language can’t produce the same

Relative to another.

A father’s love may wax and wane,

With heart of world’s care;

And every avenue be stopt

With not a corner there

Wherein may rest a wishful thought

For child that’s far away;

Wherein may rise the holy prayer,

Lest they should go astray.

A brother may forget the love

Of childhood’s happy years;

And give that love to something else,

Creating doubts and fears.

This is all I have, clearly there should be more to this poem and there are two others in the index which I do not have…