Chapter XV: Introduction

The night was dark, the wind did howl,
When Tom the Fiddler left his bowl;
His nose once of a fiery hue,
Was now deep tinged with modest blue;
Fierce o’er the heath the wind did blow,
And swiftly fell the drifting snow.
Tom was returning from the fair
With lightsome heart devoid of care;
His fiddle, as I’ve heard it sung,
Across one ample shoulder hung
In leathern case, and by his side,
A horn of snuff was well supplied;
A huge nob-stick he firmly grasped,
And to his breast a loaf he clasped,――
Poor Tom had once seen better days
Than fiddling for a looby’s praise;
At country club, or wake, or fair,
He would have scorned to scrape a hair;
But now alas! old times are gone,
He roams neglected and unknown;
And strangers claim that high renown
Which Tommy once had thought his own.

At length he reaches a large mansion, he craves admission and shelter from the storm:

The lady happened to be nigh,
She heard his voice and language high,
She marked his wet and dirty clothes,
His pimpled cheek and reverend nose,
And bade her maid the servants tell,
That they should use the fiddler well:
For she had known adversity,
Tho’ raised to such a high degree;
And sorrow too, for in her bloom
She wept o’er her third husband’s tomb.

After due attention to the creature comforts of the Fiddler, he obliges the company with his lay, in the manner of Scott’s last Minstrel, and at the end of each Canto refreshes himself with a draught of good October ale. The opening lines of the third Canto describe his partiality for strong liquor:――

I.

And said I that my throat was dry;
And said I that no cheer was nigh,
And that all giving souls were dead,
And that the good to heaven were fled.
And that I ne’er should put my nose
Again into a tankard’s brim;
And that I ne’er again should dose,
Before an ale-house hearth so grim?
How could I fancy such mishap,
Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap,
On me the happiest of mankind,
The merriest mortal you may find?

II.

In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good;
In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed;
In kitchens, now they drink small beer;
Malt, hops and water, grow so dear.
Good liquor rules both church and state,
It brightens many a stupid pate;
And men and saints, to my own thinking,
Are often prone unto hard drinking.
Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen;
A glass of grog is what they mean.
* * * * *

The poem closes with a description of Tommy’s fate:――

Hushed is the fiddle――Tommy’s gone;
But did he roam, unhoused, unknown,
Again thro’ wilds and deserts drear?
No succour nigh, or alehouse near?
Oh no:――close by this stately hall,
So snug, with newly white-washed wall,
Appears Tom’s cot; with lattice clean,
And window-shutters painted green,
A garden, hen-pen, and a stye,
Well stock’d with sundries, stand close by;
And every want is well supplied,
And every blessing is enjoyed.
* * * * *

――――

BREATHES THERE A MAN WITH SOUL SO DEAD.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
Confound that horrid Little-Go
Whose heart within him ne’er has burned,
As from the papers he has turned,
When them he found he did’nt know.

If such there be――go! mark him well
For him no Poll will do as well
As honours high, or wrangler’s name
A fellowship’s his only aim.
Not _his_ to lie upon the shelf;
Poor wretch sustainer of himself
A living comes thro’ his renown.
Nor unrewarded goes he down
To the small hamlet whence he sprung,
A hero great as bards have sung.

From _The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_. (Metcalfe and Sons,
Cambridge.)

――――

THE LAY OF THE FIRST MINSTREL.
_By Sir Walter Scott-free, Bart._

It was an Oxford Scholar bright,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
And he would get him thoroughly tight,
For Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

Blithely he saw the coming dun,
As bright as sun on Charsley’s Hall,
Alas! his race was well nigh run
And Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

The dun drinks wine, and tastes it well,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
Then came Cremation and he fell,
So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

He fell not by the “Old Red Heart,”
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
He fell by Gilbey’s fiery art,
To prove that Gilbey’s lord of all.

The scholar spurned the knife and fork,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
And cut his throat with Gilbey’s cork,
So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

From _The Shotover Papers_ (Oxford), October 17, 1874.

――――:o:――――

The following extract is taken from a very amusing volume, entitled “_Lays of the Saintly_,” by Mr. Walter Parke, published by Vizetelly and Co., London. The ballad introduced is a Parody of the style of ballads contained in Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.

ST. FILLAN’S ARM.
(_A Lay of Scott-land._)

Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang,
“On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring”
(_Which_ elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang,
And keep thy wires in order while I sing
In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring;
And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint
Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring;
Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint
With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint.

I.

If thou would’st view old Pittenweem aright,
Go visit it by the broad daylight,
For if the night were murky, pray
How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye!
And should it eke come on to rain,
Thy pleasure would be turn’d to pain;
But when the golden sunbeams smile
On ruin’d nave and barren aisle,
When noontide rays enlivening fall
On thirstly floor and weedy wall.
So that thou need’st not break thy bones
Or shins against the rugged stones,
Then go, but take a trusty guide
Who knows the country far and wide,
And give him half-a-crown or so,
To tell thee all that he may know;
But should he show thee Fillan’s tomb
Within some cloister’s ivied gloom,
Believe him not, although he swear,
Because the Saint’s not buried there.

II.

Breathes there the man who having read
All that the Northern Bard has said,
All the particulars supplied
By travellers’ tomes and Murray’s Guide,
Of Scotia’s landscapes fair and grand,
Longs not to see that favour’d land?
Oh, would that _I_ could get the chance
To view those regions of romance,
What pleasure to be climbing now
Ben Dizzy’s stern and lofty brow!
How sweet to stand beside the Frith
That owes its waters to Loch Smith,
To mark Bel-hangar’s ruin’d pile,
And Ion-munga’s charmed isle,
Whilst in the distance can be seen
The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,[35]
And, if the weather be not dull,
The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull;
And, floating like a mirage there,
That phantom ship, the “_Brig_ of _Ayr_”
Sails where Loch Toddy’s smile creates
A beauty that intoxicates.
Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt,
Knights tourneying within Glen-_Tilt_,
Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James
Calling each other dreadful names,
And see them chase, through bosky dells
The _hart_ that “in the Highlands” dwells.
Oh, if some friend would pay my fare,
How “like a bird” I’d wander there!

III.

The meal was over at Pittenweem;
The monks had gone to their cells to dream,
Or heavily sleep, as the case might be,
Till waked by the bell at half-past three;
The Abbot had gone to his private tower,
For _he_ sat up till a later hour,
And oft he would have his under-prior
To sit and talk by the cosy fire;
For Abbots of old, you may suppose,
Could do in such matters as they chose,
And here, from the mill-stream’s outer loch
To the tippest top of the weather-cock,
Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme――
Such was the custom of Pittenweem.

IV.

The night was long, the weather cold;
A Minstrel, neither young nor old,
Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes
Wrung pity from those monkish souls,
Entered the Abbey’s lower hall,
Whence, duteous to the Abbot’s call,
He brought himself and harp upstairs
And ’gan show off his Scottish airs.
It was a charity to bring
Such warbler in the place to sing.
St. Fillan gave him ample cheer
And copious draughts of home-made beer,
Till, while that inspiration work’d,
This music from the wires he jerk’d:――

V.

BALLAD.
THE BLUE BROTHER.
(Parody of a Ballad in “Percy’s Reliques.”)

’Twas on Maxwelton’s bonny braes
(“Where early fa’s the dew.”)
That at the set of sun I met
A Friar of Orders blue.

With sigh, and frown, and eyes cast down,
His face was sad to see;
Some heavy care was settled there――
Whatever could it be?

“Come hither, come hither, thou Holy Friar,
Why dost thou look so blue?”
He answer’d stern――“I’ve yet to learn
What that’s to do with _you_.”

“Wert thou,” I asked, “a baron bold,
Who sought a hermit’s lot,
Because thy love so false did prove?”
He answer’d, “I was _not_.”

“And hast thou fought in distant climes,
Seen mighty cities fall,
And wounded been a score of times?”
He answered, “Not at all.”

“And did thy true love follow thee,
In page’s garb disguised?
And when thou foundest it was she,
Say, wert thou not surprised?”

“No true love ever follow’d me
Thus garbed; or if she had,
At once, I ween, I must have seen
’Twas she, and not a lad.”

“And did she, stricken by thy side
In thy embrace expire?”
“Good gracious! no――who told you so?
He _must_ have been a liar.”

“Or hadst thou woed some ladye fair,
And wast about to wed,
But saw or heard that she preferr’d
Another knight instead?

“And didst thou seek their trysting-place,
And fiercely slay them both,
And there inter both him and her?”
“I did’nt, on my oath!”

“Or did’st thou quarrel with a maid,
Who loved thee all the time,
And seek a hermitage’s shade?
Far in a foreign clime;

“And did the maiden seek thee out,
Dress’d like a pilgrim-boy?
And, having found thee safe and sound,
Die, there and then, for joy?”

Fire flash’d from that Blue Brother’s eye;
“’Tis well,” he cried, “for you,
That I’m a Friar, else in mine ire
Some mischief might I do!

“Why should I tell to such as thou
The story of my youth?
My patience is exhausted now,
Denying each untruth.

“You’re right, so far, if you suppose
I’ve seen some woes and cares,
But, mark you well, I never tell
To strangers my affairs.”

The vesper-bell rang thro’ the dell;
Abrupt he sped away,
And not another syllable
Did to this minstrel say.

And tho’ upon Maxwelton’s braes
Since then I’ve often been,
I know not why, but never I
Have that Blue Brother seen.

VI.

The Abbot praised the Minstrel’s skill,
And gave him siller――better still;
What wonder that such vagrant men,
Encouraged thus, should come agen?
For Fillan’s heart was warm and large,
He never gave these folks in charge,
And tho’ the bagpipe made him groan,
He let his torturer alone.
Well used, I wot, were one and all
Within St. Fillan’s Abbey-wall;
Even the cats were fed on cream――
Such was the custom of Pittenweem.

* * * * *

――――

Another imitation of _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ was “_The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle_,” a poem in Five Cantos (with notes in galore) supposed to be written by W――――. S――――., Esq., London, 1814. This parody was at first attributed to the pen of Washington Irving, but is now generally ascribed to his brother-in-law, James Kirke Paulding, a voluminous author, well-known on the other side of the Atlantic. The parody appears to have been first published in the United States, and then re-produced in London. The author, for the purpose of his burlesque, describes the unhappy war then raging between Great Britain and his own country, as predatory, and treats of the British officers as border chieftains and freebooters. Such poetical license, especially on the part of an avowed foe, seems quite excusable, yet the Editor of the English Edition, in his preface, is very severe both on the poem and the notes which accompany it. These notes are voluminous, occupying nearly as many pages as the parody itself, and they are partly humorous and satirical, but principally descriptive of events alluded to in the poem, which had occurred during the war.

There were some imitations of Scott’s _Lay_ in _Truth_, January 18, 1877, and also in the Christmas number of _Truth_ for 1877.

“_A Lay to the Last Minstrel_,” inscribed to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, by Edward Churton (London, John Murray, 1874), is not, as one might suppose from the title, either an imitation, or a parody of Scott. It is merely an essay on his poetical genius, with some lines in his praise.

――――:o:――――

MARMION.

This was the next poem published by Scott after _The Lay_. It contains several passages which have been singled out for frequent imitation, notably Lady Heron’s Song, _Lochinvar_, and the well-known lines in