Chapter XIII: Act V: Scene I (3)

“Sept. 11th, 1678.—Catharine Liddel exhibited a complaint against one Rutherford, baron bailie to Morison of Preston-grange, and against David Cowan in Tranent, bearing that they had seized upon her an innocent woman, and had defamed her as a witch, and detained her under restraint as a prisoner; and that the said Cowan had pricked her with long pins in sundry places of her body, and bled her and tortured her most cruelly. The defences were, that she was delated by other witches, and was therefore apprehended;—that she was kindly used and kept in a private house; that she and her son-in-law consented that she might be searched for the vindication of her innocence, &c.; that the pricker learned his trade from Kincaid, a famed pricker; 2d, That he never came unsent for, because he was either called by sheriffs, magistrates of burghs, ministers, or bailies of baronies; 3d, The trade was not improbat or condemned by any law; 4th, All divines or lawyers who write on witchcraft, as Perkins, Delrio, &c. acknowledge there are such marks, called by them _stigma sagarum_. In the defence it was urged, that consent _was denied_;—that the _pricker_ was a _cheat, who abused the people for gain_; and the Chancellor remembered that he had incarcerated Kincaid the pricker at Kinross, for abusing the country there. The Lords of Privy Council declared the woman innocent, and ordained it to be publicly intimated in her parish church the Sunday following. They reproved Rutherford, the baron-bailie, for his rashness, and ordered the pricker to prison to remain during their pleasure. Prohibited in future any inferior judge or baron-bailie from incarcerating the lieges on suspicion of witchcraft, without a warrant from Lords of Privy Council or Justiciary; as also found they might not use any torture by pricking, as by withholding them from sleep, &c. but reserved all that to themselves and the justices, and those who acted by their commission.”—See _Fountainhall’s Decis._ vol. i. p. 16.

A more salutary decree could not have been issued by the Privy Council. It appears from the deposition, that Kincaid had abused the innocent for gain, under the sanction of the clergy and magistracy; and here, though we must make allowance for prejudice and ignorance, yet he imposed on the candid Fountainhall himself, as we have seen in the trial of Elizabeth Moodie.

In 1698 we find the following notice in the session records of Spott.—“The session, after a long examination of witnesses, refer the case of Marion Lillie, for imprecations and supposed witchcraft to the presbytery, who refer her for trial to the civil magistrate. Said Marion, generally called the Rigwoody Witch;”—and, in 1705, we learn from the same register, that many witches were burnt on the top of Spott Loan, which was probably the last execution for this imputed crime in East Lothian.

In a MS. volume of sermons, preached in the parish of Stenton, at a communion in 1702, during the incumbency of the Rev. Mr Stark, the following passage occurs in debarring unworthy communicants: “I debar all witches and warlocks; all who have renounced their baptism, and who are in compact or contract with the devil.”

The very name of witch was now regarded with so much abhorrence and dread, that Dec. 21st, 1707, Margaret Rankine was cited before the kirk-session of Pencaitland, merely for calling Margaret Nicolson _witch_! This Rankine stoutly denied; but as she had been frequently before the same tribunal for other offences, she was considered a person incapable of church discipline, and remitted to the civil magistrate, with a request, that “the minister and elders of Winton may inform Bailie Smith, the Earl of Winton’s bailie, thereof, that he may take a _course_ with her.”—_Sess. Rec. Pencait._

I may close these remarks with an anecdote of Helen Sharpe, who lived in Haddington about fifty years ago. My informant, when a girl at the school, remembers the terror she spread among old and young. Helen was seen stalking about, decked in her linsey-wolsey gown, checked worsted apron, blue hood and cloak, with her crooked headed staff. One dark winter night the midwife was sent for to one of the wives of Clerkington. After vaulting with howdie suppleness behind Ralph at the Custom-stone, she knew not where she was, till she and her companion stood at the miller’s door. It appeared as if they had been whirled rapidly through the air in a wonderful manner. Helen’s next exploit was bewitching Provost Dudgeon’s kye, in consequence of having been refused sour milk by his lady. Next morning not a drop of milk would come from the witch-struck udders. In future they took care to be more bountiful. When Helen died, several candles were found in her chest, supposed to be kept for midnight meetings, and no hallowed purpose.

The ages are happily now passed, when a convent of pretty nuns run the risk of being metamorphosed into a bevy of squirrels; and perhaps the finest apology for witchcraft on record, and that which is most applicable to modern times, is that of _Furius Cresinus_, who, when accused of magic, because he had better crops of corn than his neighbours, brought before them for his defence his heavy ploughs and spades, and sun-burnt daughters, and said, These were the charms that he made use of!—_Pliny’s Nat. Hist._

Nearly allied to witchcraft is the theory of ghosts and apparitions. There are few who have not read “The Wonderful and True Account of the Laird of Cool’s Ghost,” which appeared to Mr Ogilvie, minister of Innerwick, about a hundred years ago. Mr Maxwell, the laird of Cool, had been a very wicked man; and as he could not get rest in his grave, till some reparation was made to those whom he had wronged upon earth, sundry conversations took place between his apparition and Mr Ogilvie, near Brandslee, for this very proper purpose. The ghost came commonly mounted on horseback, which horse, gentle reader, was the redoubtable Andrew Johnston, one of his tenants, who had departed this life forty-eight hours before his master! The conversations that took place, which are mixed up with more arguments than these spiritual visitants are commonly understood to use, were found amongst Mr Ogilvie’s papers after his decease, and were too valuable to be withheld from the world. We can scarcely conceive that they were dictated by malice, but rather that they were flesh and blood confessions and opinions, thrown into a ghostly form.

The next and last story of this kind which I shall intrude upon the reader, is one which I picked up when in search of matter of a different nature; and which, but for its remarkable termination, might be easily explained away.

=A Tale of Garleton.=

Rather more than fifty years ago, an old maiden lady,[14] of good family, was the tenant of one of the now decayed wings of the mansion-house of Garleton. She is described as a tall thin figure, who wore a black silk cloak and bonnet, and walked with a large cane, ornamented with a gold chain and tassel. She had also a great deal of eccentricity in her conduct; for she often walked at dead of night and early dawn, till she was so wetted by the dews and the long dank grass, that, on her return home, she had to shift her clothes or go to bed. Add to this, that she had the misfortune to be a papist, and was very ostensible in her devotions; so that we need not wonder that she was regarded by the superstitious of the neighbourhood with no small degree of terror and aversion.

Having sauntered out one morning till near sunrise, she sat down on the Craggy Hill, when “an odd-looking man,” as she termed him, approached her. She waved her cane to keep off the intruder, who, after muttering something, went away. The lady immediately returned home; but, during the day, could not banish the unwelcome visitor from her thoughts. At night, after locking the outer door, and placing the key below her pillow, she went to bed, as usual, at a late hour. In vain she endeavoured to compose herself to sleep, and to dissipate the troublous thoughts that rose in her mind; at length she heard the outer door open, and a heavy foot come tramping up the creaking stairs; something opened the door, and entered the room adjoining to her bed-closet; the door of the latter next opened, and she again beheld the unwelcome visitor—the spectre of the morning.

She was only able to articulate, “Who comes there?” when the stranger replied, “This is my native place, and I have a long history to tell you!” The lady, thinking the intruder was a robber, pointed to a small box containing her keys, and bade him take what he wanted, and begone. The mysterious personage still wished to speak; but as she waved her hand, and inclined not to listen, he disappeared. As he retired, she again heard the heavy foot tramping down the creaking stairs, till the slashing of the outer door announced his exit.

Although the lady passed a sleepless night, she was unwilling to disturb the inmates of her house, which consisted only of a maiden lady and a domestic. Next morning, when the servant came for the key of the outer door, she told her what had happened, and that she imagined robbers had been in the house. The maid had also the imperfect recollection of some noise; but it was like the noise of a dream. At her lady’s desire she immediately went to the press where the family plate was deposited, but found it unmolested; the silver wine-cup stood on the mantlepiece, below the crucifix, untouched, and the outer door remained fast: in short, every thing stood in its place, as on the preceding evening.

It was the impression of the less superstitious part of the neighbourhood, that the old maiden lady was superannuated, and that the ghastly visitant was the creature of a dream. Be this as it may, on that very day twelvemonth, the Lady of Garleton was seized with a convulsive fit in the evening, and expired about the same hour at midnight that she had had an interview with the unwelcome visitor. I have only to add, that the person from whom I had the preceding story is of unquestionable veracity; and that she had often heard it from the lady’s own lips.

The ruins of the mansion-house stand at the foot of Garleton hills, a fine miniature specimen of Highland scenery. Amidst scenes like these, the author of Douglas poured forth his immortal strains to the midnight air. Upon a sequestered dell, nearly opposite Kilduff, called Ravensdale, or, more familiarly, Watty’s Howe, Mr Home pursued his declamatory studies, to the no small terror of the benighted traveller, who hence conjectured that the place was haunted.

THE
VICAR OF GOLYN.

Gif evir my fortune wes to be a freir,
The dait thereof is past full mony a yeir;
For into every lusty toun and place,
Off all Yngland, from Berwick to Calice,
I haif into thy habeit maid gud cheir.
WILLIAM DUNBAR.

The ruins of the ancient church of Golyn (now called Gullane) still remain, which served that place and Dirleton till 1612, when the church was translated to the latter parish, of which Gullane now forms a part. The last Vicar of Golyn is said to have been deposed by King James VI. for the high crime of smoking tobacco—a weed which his majesty deemed only fit for diabolical fumigations.—See _Grose’s Scots. Ant._ vol. i. p. 71, where there is a fine view of the church.

THE
VICAR OF GOLYN.

In James’s pedant reign, so famed for schooling,
There dwelt a Vicar at the church of Golyn;
In friar’s weed, like Will Dunbar, he’d preach’d;
In friar’s weed the ladies he had fleech’d,
For he was fond of amatory fooling.

At golf, or archery, or football match,
Like Indian juggler, he the game would catch;
At cards, or dice, or chess, he had no equal,
With other items, noted in the sequel—
A motley priest as e’er the church did hatch.

His cheeks were reddish brown, like colour’d brandy;
His neck look’d stiff and starch’d, like modern dandy;
His belly round and full: this oily glutton
Would gobble at one meal a leg of mutton—
A man that’s overfed is most unhandy!

His lips were parch’d with an eternal drouth;
His lusty tongue was larger than his mouth;
So, when he minced tobacco’s scented quid,
The noxious slaver down his bosom slid:—
He was a man in figure most uncouth!

To crown his face he had a bottle nose,
Which with his chin was like to come to blows,
They look’d as if they’d eat up one another:
His eye was round and red unlike its brother;
His face shaped as full moon we may suppose.

His knees against each other idly knockit,
As if they long’d to burst their clumsy socket;
Beneath his heavy carcass, worn and spent,
His shins were like twin cross-bows when they’re bent;
His arms were like a hat when it is cocked.

Now I’ve described his person; for his mind
It show’d the very dregs of humankind;
Debauch’d with endless round of fraud and folly,
His private hours were spent in haunts unholy,—
His parallel on earth I scarce may find.

His lying tongue was veil’d in eloquence,
Which preach’d up sophistry for common sense;
His smile satanic mask’d a wicked heart;
His manners shew’d the polish’d man of art,
That wins too often the world’s recompense.

His name became a by-word, disrespected—
His flock by Satan worried, were neglected!
He was, indeed, a very sinful Vicar,
Who barter’d holy water for his liquor;
Yet he look’d merry aye, and ne’er dejected.

At Beltane-time he made the riggings ring,
And songs profane for holy lilts would sing;
At Lenten-time a perfect Epicurean,
In secret capons with his fish devouring;
While his liege paramour did aqua bring.

Indeed, so many ways he tortured fish,
Each Lent supplied him with a favourite dish;
On Fridays he had pickled salmon ready,
And mack’rel from the wives of Aberlady—
Our Vicar never went about the bush.

And much he loved to guzzle precious wine,
That once had blush’d in vineyards on the Rhine;
Fresh fragrant claret too from joyous France;
That which he prized was Angiers and Orlance—
Liquor on which the gods of Greece might dine.

How the lean curate crouch’d to his command,
When like the bust of famine he would stand!
With tatter’d gown, and under-raiment rent,
Thin jaws, that pictured an eternal Lent,
Stretching, to catch a crumb, his skinny hand.

The Vicar too, of tithes and cattle greedy,
Would fix his ugly talons in the needy;
When the poor cottar sought his humble grave,
His fattest cow, for prayers, the priest must have,
While of her raploch gray he robb’d the widow.

Ash Wednesday has seen the Vicar meet
With drouthy cummers to Malvasie treat,
Where he would sit carousing till the Monday,
Then go to preach, thinking the day was Sunday,
When he could scarcely stand upon his feet.

He pitter-patter’d o’er his rusty rosary,
To know his creed one must have had a glossary;
He mumbled things divine with so much bawling,
His hearers liken’d it to caterwauling—
He was a man unworthy shoes or hosiery!

Yet he was deeply read in Aristotle,
And might have soar’d, but for the aqua bottle;
He knew Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine,
Benedict, Bernard, Clement, Cleit, and Lyne;[15]
But, then, he went too often to the hotel.

He’d studied history, barbarous and civil;
He knew when stars denoted good or evil;
Versed in alchymy, he went plodding on,
Yet never lit on the philosopher’s stone,
While some surmised he’d dealings with the devil.

I’ve said, for sports athletic he was keen,
Footing the mazy ball on Golyn-green;
At weapon-shaws a regular looker-on,
But ere the broil began, our priest was gone
To join the gallant’s mask at Christmas e’en.

A man that’s light of head is light of heel,
Our Vicar loved to join the Beltane reel,
Where he would skipper in the Dirry-duntoun,
And hop about just like a pillar wanton;
Threading his body spiral as an eel.

He loved, like Will Dunbar, the courtly dance,
Where Mistress Musgrave’s smiles did all enhance,
Shading with garlands gay her yellow hair:—
Her kirtle red, with belt and brooch so fair;
For such a lady, who’d not break a lance?

When age the giddy heat of youth is cooling,
’Tis time our wayward passions to be ruling;
So thinks the major part of humankind;
But to his failings ever darkly blind
Remain’d the Vicar of the church of Golyn.

He hated merchants—hated tailors trim;
He hated souters, baxters, fleshers grim;
He hated brewers—but not tavern-keepers;
He hated all his hearers—but the sleepers;—
And so he might, because they hated him!

In Mary’s reign he turned Episcopalian,
Changing his church and creed to serve his calling;
Like weathercock, that waver’d with the wind,
To all but pettifogging interest blind,
He sneak’d wherever fortune’s rays were falling.

Then came that vice of great abomination,
As ever visited a sinful nation;
Which set our prince’s pendant pen a-railing:
Our Vicar, most unlucky, caught the failing,
And to the devil smoked his congregation.

Our Vicar having learn’d this art of smoking,
Which (as I’ve said) the parish set a choking,
The king, still mindful of his people’s weal,
Wrote Tracts against Tobacco and the De’il!
Swearing the vice was sinful and provoking.

Then swore the monarch, “This same fumigation
“Will, doubtless, bring a curse upon the nation;
“I’ll send for Tycho Brahe from Copenhagen;
“I’ll send my smoking clergy to the begging—
“Those tickle-snouts must mind their flock’s salvation!”

O ye who love to feed your nasal ducts!
Chewing tobacco till your stomach pukes,
I beg you’ll take a lesson from the Vicar,
Behind the door you’d better bend the bicker!
What think you of this case, my pretty bucks?

For now-a-days there’s not a little dandy,
But wears a box so fanciful and handy,
Brimful of Maccaba or Princes Mixture,
Tickling his lady, when he’s sitting next her;—
And then his bridge-like organ looks so sandy.

Ye fools! when Christmas brings the huge sirloin,
And tables groan ere knives in carnage join,
Ye do not feel that kitchen-scented flavour,
That makes the impatient mouthful sweeter savour—
O fy! that for such plant you sport your coin!

Digressions we must leave, and seek the Vicar,
Who’s seated snugly o’er his favourite liquor;
For once his Holiness has studied deep,
For o’er the Litany he’s gone to sleep,—
With reverence, I do think he’s getting sicker.

Our hero now, in secret, fed his nose,
An ounce of snuff he gobbled at a dose,
Till tired, his evil genius took to smoking,
And set the neighbourhood again a-choking,
Who forthwith sallied like a host of foes.

This deed his frousy neighbours wish’d to hush up,
But for a saint who wish’d to nibble fish up,
Yclept in prose, assistant and successor,
A brainless fellow, but a great professor,
Who went post-speed, and told it to the bishop.

The bishop told the king to curry grace,
Which pleased so well his heaven-anointed face,
He gave a puff as fierce as the sirrocco,
Issued his Counterblast against Tobacco;
And call’d the Vicar up with little space.

“Item, our pleasure is, on heavy grounds
“To purge the church of fumigating hounds;
“Therefore, that this said Vicar may not fool us,
“In other words, with quirks and quibbling gull us,
“We banish him beyond our church’s bounds.”

The Vicar heard his sentence, and was wroth.
He did not value much the Lutheran cloth;
But, O! to leave the Links and football match,
The Golyn cummer’s glee, and merry catch;
At leaving these he tarried, and was loth.

Raising his voice to an obstreperous pitch,
“Go tell!” cried he, “that ugly Lutheran bitch!
“That I will snuff while I have got a nose;
“That I will smoke while my stout windpipe blows;
“And when I fail, go brand me for a witch!”

The Vicar took a trip beyond the sea,
To Calais first, and next to Italie;
Again became a servant to the Pope,
Yet never gain’d preferment’s dizzy top,
But died, despised, among the Lazzaroni.

’Twas said a shape unearthly oft was seen,
Playing at football match on Golyn green;—
’Twas said, at dead of night, on Golyn steeple,
The Vicar smoked, and hallo’d to the people;
Such sights were strange—but yet such sights have been.

THE
GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL,
AND THE
LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o’ Tulloshill.”
_Old Proverb._

This ballad is founded on a traditional story, which I have gathered from different sources, and put into a connected form. The hero was John the second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale,—a nobleman as famous for his loyalty to the wavering interests of Charles II. during the sway of the “immortal rebel,” Cromwell, as he was afterwards notorious for his political power and rapacity. The heroine was Margaret Lylestone, wife to Thomas Hardie, tenant in Tulloshill. There were anciently three farms of Tullos in Lammermoor, and from her abode, by way of distinction, she was called _Mid-side Maggy_. The adventure noticed in the following Ballad, must have occurred after the battle of Worcester, in 1651, where the Duke of Lauderdale was taken prisoner, and suffered a confinement in the Tower for nine years, till liberated by General Monk in 1660; when repairing to the Hague, he returned with the king at the Restoration.

THE
GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL,
AND THE
LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

There dwelt in pastoral Tulloshill,
Where waves the mountain broom,
A fair gudewife, and a leal auld man,
As ye’d found in landwart toun.

Her cheeks were dyed wi’ health’s bright glow,
That spake in her eyes o’ blue;
And wantonly the dimpling smile
Play’d round her cherry mou’.

The rustic swains jeer’d merrily,
While seated o’er the cann,—
And wonder’d why so young a dame,
Had wed so auld a man!

The gudewife went to Lauder Tower,
And made a loud lament;
And told the Lord of Lauderdale
She coudna pay her rent.

Perish’d the firstlings of their flocks,
The winters were sae chill,
The April snaw lay on the ground
When it fell at Tulloshill.

Upspake the Lord of Lauderdale,
“Gudewife, I grant a boon,
“Ye’se sit rent-free at Martinmas
“If ye bring me snaw in June.”

And he toy’d wi’ the gudewife’s sunny locks,
And chuck’d her under the chin;
And compared her skin to the creamy flocks,
That o’er the Scenes-law rin.

“Now haud ye there, Sir Knight,” she said,
And away like a fawn she ran;
But he did nae mair to the merry wife
Than became an honest man.

She made a ba’ of drifted snaw,
Which she gather’d by Criblaw shiel;
And she laid it in a rocky dean,
And cover’d it wi’ grey meal.

And she brought it in the end of June
To ancient Thirlestane;
And my lord received her graciously
In his state chamber alane.

“Now spare your speech, gudewife,” he cried,
“And make no foolish mane;
“For one kiss o’ your hinny mou
“Were worth a’ Thirlestane.”

“Now, fare thee weel! Sir Knight,” she said,
(As her Ladyship cam ben,)
“Ye’se get the best at Tulloshill,
“When ye shoot the mountain hen.”

Deep lay the snaw in Lammermoor,
On mountain height and glen,
And cauld, cauld blew the sleety shower
O’er Greenlaw’s mossy fen.

And deep lay the snaw in Leader-haughs,
And drifted o’er the plain,
When at the rack-rent o’ the year
She thought o’ her Lord again.

“The spring returns to Whalplaw burn,
“The birds to Langhope shaw;
“But when will Lauderdale return?—
“O, he’s been lang awa!

“When Charlie gets his rightfu’ crown,
“Which Cromwell fain wad wear;
“When the democratic parliament
“To the depths of hell shall stear.

“Alas! for the battle of Worcester,
“Where Lauderdale was ta’en,
“And the gallant Duke of Hamilton
“Lay dead amang the slain.

“My silken snood I’d gladly sell,
“And crimson kirtle gay,
“To ransom him, laid in the Tower
“For aiding royalty.

“My siller brooch I’d gladly sell,
“And eke my golden kaim;
“And surely I’d gang daft wi’ joy,
“Were my good lord come hame!”

Her Culross girdle from the shelf
She took, sae large and clean;
For eighteen cakes o’ the Merse’s make
This girdle held I ween.

She baked a bannock, large and round,
Wi’ flour frae Carfrae mill;—
And there ne’er was a cake but had its maik,
Save that o’ Tulloshill.

For aye as she kneaded it o’er and o’er,
She fill’d it fou o’ gold,
Then doubled it up like a honeycomb,
Wi’ treasures in its fold.

She plaited up her yellow hair
In an artful sunny braid;
Then cover’d her locks wi’ the bonnet blue,
And her bosom wi’ the plaid.

She laced her velvet milk-white limbs
In the tartan trews sae rough,
And buried her well-turned ancles in
The folds of homespun stuff.

Thus fashion’d, in a herdsman’s dress,
She padded her shelty’s back;
And rode behind her leal auld man
When wearied wi’ her walk.

Like drovers from the north countrie,
They travell’d on together;
And gallop’d away to London town,
O’er mountain, glen, and heather.

And as the Borders wide they pass’d,
The southron dames wou’d say,
“Beshrew me! that’s a bonny lad,
“Led by his father grey.”

The gudewife came to London town,
And went into Rag Fair,
And drest herself like a beggar-wife,
Wi’ wallets scant and bare.

And when she came to London Tower
She feign’d herself insane,
And aye the burden of her song
Was, “Harry, back again!”

And, “Carle, now the king has come!”
She sung wi’ Scottish voice;
But when she chanted Leaderhaughs,
His lordship did rejoice.

And aye she leugh and aye she lap,
And foolish words let pass;
While the sentinels stood by and jeer’d
The silly Scottish lass.

And they have sworn to take her up,
And fling her in the moat;
When up came the keeper of the Tower,
Who made them change their note.

“Know ye the Lord of Lauderdale?”
Said the officer of the Tower;
“O I wad kiss him lug frae lug!”
Quoth she, “within this hour;

“And garland him with gowans rare,
“Frae Mid-side Maggy’s bower;
“Gif ye wad let a silly lass
“Your draw-brig wander o’er.”

They let her pass the castle-gates,
Although her looks were wild;
For she gambol’d on so harmlessly,
Like a lamb or a little child.

Beneath her ragged arm she bore
The bannock doubled o’er—
“Is such your Scottish bread, daft lass?”
Quoth the keeper of the Tower.

“O sweet is Scotia’s aiten-cakes,
“And pure her siller springs;
“And the food we cull from Scotia’s hills
“Might banquet English kings.”

Forth came the Earl’s waiting-man,
When he heard the gudewife sing;
For Leaderhaughs and Cowdenknowes
Made his very heart-strings ring.

“Go, speed, and your lordly master tell,
“But take it good or ill,
“That Mid-side Maggy greets him here,
“From broomy Tulloshill.”

She went into Lord Lauderdale,
Who sat in chains array’d;
But as she pass’d the steel-laced gates,
She felt her heart dismay’d.

And she felt a woman’s natural fears
Rush o’er her fainting soul,
When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate,
And heard the lions growl.

When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate,
And saw Lord Derby’s head,
She thought her velvet thighs wad shake
Away frae the knee-pan lid.

She sat her down at his lordship’s feet,
And comb’d her yellow hair;
And the gold fell down like diamond heaps
In shining goupins there.

She took the bannock in her hand,
And brake it o’er her knee;
And on the floor, in yellow showers,
The golden guineas flee.

“Now take thee these, my worthy lord,
“’Tis all I have to gi’e!
“And seek in Holland’s princely towers
“For safety o’er the sea.”—

“A friend in need’s a friend indeed!”
He took her by the hand;
“For such a dame as thee, gudewife,
“I’d part wi’ hauf my land!

“But fare thee weel! my bonny dow!
“Oh! fare thee weel a while;
“Ye’se sit rent free till I return
“To broomy Tulloshill.

“Frae Leader-side to rocky Esk
“The lands ye see are mine,
“Yet fate decrees, in a foreign land,
“That I these fields maun tine.”

“Now, fare thee weel! my generous lord,”
Was all that she could say,
“I’ll pray for you on my bare, bare knees
“Till your returning day.”

They durst nae harm Lord Lauderdale,
Nor they durst nae set him free,
Till nine lang years pass’d o’er his head
In the Tower sae drearilie.

When Cromwell low in the dust was laid,
And that parliament in its wane,
Which he long had rein’d wi’ a master-hand,
Our lord got free again.

Away he sail’d o’er the snowy foam,
To the Prince of Holland’s towers,
And met his king right gladsomely
In Hague’s canal-lined bowers.

And aye he blest the leal gudewife
That won’d at Tulloshill;
For he found her goud of use to him
When his ain was nae in his will.

And, O! but she was a proud gudewife,
When she hail’d the king’s return;
For again she saw Lord Lauderdale
Restored to Leader-burn.

No more like tenant, scant o’ cash,
Rent-time did her dismay;
For she got free lease of Tulloshill
Her life-lang and a day.

My lord gi’ed her a silver belt,
Sprinkled wi’ diamonds fine;[16]
And she walk’d in a star-like galaxy,
Dug from the Indian mine.

The muse’s finest flights maun fail,
So drops my downy quill;
For John is Duke of Lauderdale—
Meg—Queen of Tulloshill.

YOUNG ARGYLE;
OR,
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.

Argyle, the state’s whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate or the field.—POPE.

Nor less the palm of peace enwreathes thy brow;
For, powerful as thy sword, from thy rich tongue
Persuasion flows, and wins the high debate;
While mix’d in thee combine the charm of youth,
The force of manhood, and the depth of age.—THOMSON.

Lethington House is situated on the south banks of the Tyne, rather more than a mile from Haddington. This fortalice was built by the Giffords, and was purchased from Sir John Gifford by Sir Richard Maitland, about the end of the fourteenth century. It was in this “fortress, large and lang,” in its “arbour, and orchard green,” where Lord Lethington, the blind baron, dictated his poetical pieces, after he had retired from public business, at an advanced age, to his daughter Mary, the partner of his studies, and herself a writer of verses, who was celebrated for her “fleing fame,” and her “trew virginitie,” by the “unknawin makars” of that period.—See _Pinkerton’s Ant. Scot. Poems._—In process of time Lethington became the jointure house of the Duchess of Lauderdale, formerly Countess of Dysart. Her daughter, Lady Lorn, afterwards Duchess of Argyle, resided here during the time of her father-in-law’s forfeiture.—It was from a window in the uppermost storey of the house that John, Duke of Argyle, fell when an infant, and escaped unhurt.—_Dr Barclay, Trans. Ant. Scot._ I have only to add, on the authority of Sir Walter Scott, that this happened on the very day on which the duke’s grandfather was beheaded at Edinburgh.

YOUNG ARGYLE;
OR
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.

I.

Old Lethington! wert thou by Gifford rear’d
With magic art, like Yester’s goblin cave,[17]
What time the Night her course to morning steer’d
And the owl whoop’d upon the virgin’s grave;
Say, did thy master-builder Heaven brave,
And with unearthly craftsmen overnight
From Garvald’s quarry drag, by hook and knave,
Those massy battlements ere morning’s light
To strike the early swain with wonder and affright?

II.

It matters not to tell—but o’er the pines
I love to view thy turrets towering grey,
Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times,
And still unbroke their lofty front display.
Though thou hast seen thy lordlings pass away,
And castled towers and abbeys fall around,
Yet here thy veteran face appears as gay
As when the warrior’s horn at morn did sound,
And gallant Lindsay paced thy spacious pleasure-ground.[18]

III.

And, hark! resounds the clashing din of war,
On adamantine walls the arrows play;
Against thy gates, strong laced with iron bar,
The battering-ram rolls on in fierce array;
Now high thy famish’d garrison display
The skin of beasts, to mock what most they need,
While shakes thy tower from vault to turret gray,
As on the invader’s head the pointed reed
From cunning crevice pours the boiling molten lead.

IV.

How oft by innate strength and stratagem
Did Scotia’s ancient fortlets brave the foe,
Whether when feudal chiefs chivalrous came,
Or civil discord wrapt the land in woe;
Or when the robber’s torch at night did glow,
And shrieks of murder’d men came on the gale,
The chiefs of Lethington were never slow,
To draw the sword, or brace the glitt’ring mail,
And chase the bold outlaw o’er farthest Lauderdale.

V.

Then Lauder’s forest to the bugle rung,
Startling marauders from their mountain prey,
As morning rose, deplored by old and young,
Where ravaged round the burning farm-yards lay;
These were fierce men, the scourges of their day,
Who on the sea of venture did embark,
And, as we’re told in Maitland’s doleful lay,
Spared neither house nor stable, church nor ark,
And loved the midnight ride, because their deeds were dark.

VI.

Lo! crown’d with laurel, in his oaken chair,
I see the ancient knight of Thirlestane,
Attended by Maria, chaste and fair,
Amanuensis to his tuneful strain,
Like Milton’s daughter, copying the rich vein
Of inspiration, as her father woke
The harp: Then humorous Lindsay breathed again,
While moral saws, and satire’s flashes broke,
As erst by Greece’s bard in optic darkness spoke.

VII.

O Lethington! thy woodlands are sublime,
Where everlasting trees their green arms wave,
Like giant-shadows beautified by time,
Shaking their shaggy locks when tempests rave;
Here walk’d the politician plotting grave;[19]
Here sighs from icy bosoms beauty wrung;
Here, young Argyle—the generous and the brave—
First woke to eloquence his artless tongue,
Where beauteous Lennox smiled, and old Sir Richard sung.

VIII.

’Tis sweet, at summer’s noon, on thy high tower,
When half obscured the sun looks softly bright,
To view the amber heights of Lammermoor,
Bathed in a misty veil of living light,
While hill and dale alternate charm the sight,
And hum of birds, and distant murmuring stream,
Sound in the ear like music in the night,
While, through the copsewood, Coalston’s turrets gleam,
And still remind us of her Margaret’s ominous dream.

IX.

The Lady lay upon her marriage-bed,
And saw the Enchanted Pear of Coalston; fair
As Eden’s tree, it rear’d its lovely head
That look’d more sweet, as whispers said, Beware!
For while the magic cornac flourish’d there,
So spread and flourish’d Coalston’s rich estate;
But the young bride long’d for a fruit so rare,—
Now touch’d it—tasted—the enchantment ate—
Awoke—it was a dream! but big with future fate.

X.

If Coalston had its _pear_, fair Lethington!
Thou hadst thy apples, with which none may vie;
As Jove’s own fruit, thy boughs beneath them groan,
Like aromatic sweets dropt from the sky—
Beneath their shades the archers oft would try
Their strength of arm; and, at the day’s decline,
They tasted Maitland’s hospitality
In draughts of Angiers that gleam’d divine,
And fed their hearts with joy, as erst it fed the vine.

XI.

Thy walks were spacious once, fair Lethington!
When Charles the Witty made his progress here,
What time the Duke, who reign’d above the throne,
Thy many parks stored full of stately deer,[20]
That venison-loving kings might not want cheer,
Nor the fat cook be taken by surprise;
Happy to leave the state—the spit to steer,
And look an epicure in royal eyes,
Who ne’er spoke nonsense, yet, ne’er acted wise!

XII.

With Charles fair Lennox might have shared the throne;
For o’er his heart she held despotic sway:
Amidst the loveliest of the court she shone,
As Venus shines amidst the starry way,
Dimming each lesser planet with her ray,
She walk’d in beauty like the sylphs above,
The diamond stone of nature’s galaxy—
Girdled with cestus by the graces wove,
Like her who from the waves uprose the Queen of Love!

XIII.

Francis Teresa! on thy fine-arch’d brow,
Minerva’s conquering aspect we descry,
While in that face where smiles through roses glow,
And in the lustre of that dark-blue eye,
Shaded by auburn ringlets, we espy
The Cyprian queen, while on thy breast of snow
Perfection leans,—and claims the heart’s soft sigh;
Before such form a monarch well might bow,
Admiring nature’s works, as we the canvass now.

XIV.

Farewell, fair Lennox! for severer themes
Than Beauty now demand the muse’s care;
The patriot’s brow the deathless laurel claims,
While rosy chaplets best become the fair;
Though gems grow dim in thy luxuriant hair,
I seek the couch where lone Eliza lies—
Alas! that hope should waken to despair,
That tears should cloud affection’s doting eyes:—
“Come, lady, fair, awake! the sun is in the skies.

XV.

“Lady of Lorn! the morning bids thee wake,
Her purple beams gild Lammerlaw’s high steep;
The lark is springing from the dewy brake,
Rousing the minstrels of the air to keep
Their woodland concert. ’Tis not meet to sleep
While on the battlements thy baby fair
Forth from his vagrant nurse has dared to creep
To sip alone the balmy-breathing air;
Lady of Lorn, awake! or waken in despair!”

XVI.

Thus spake the warning spirit of a dream,
When lovely from her couch, dishevell’d, wild,
Uprose the Flower of Dysart with a scream,
As she beheld a writhing serpent coil’d
Around her child, while each swollen artery boil’d;
And as with shrieks far Coalston’s echoes rung,
The emerald turf with infant’s blood was soil’d;
She heard the death-notes freeze upon his tongue—
When, reckless where she went, away the lady sprung.

XVII.

She sought her boy in castle-tower and wood;
But he was not in nursery nor in hall—
When ’neath the casement’s lofty sash she stood,
And heard his gentle voice upon her call.
Sprung from his nurse’s arms in gamesome brawl,
Next moment on the ground he bit the soil,
Roll’d up, then to his little limbs ’gan crawl,
Look’d in his mother’s face with playful smile,
And rose—a miracle! unhurt the Young Argyle!

XVIII.

It was a dreadful omen, at that hour,
Which nearly a long line of glory broke,
When Young Argyle fell from the lofty tower
On the green-turf unscath’d—upon the block
His grandsire laid his head; alas! the shock
Was felt by Freedom; it severely shew’d
The gratitude of kings, and did provoke
That slumbering justice which so fiercely glow’d,
When man at last “appeal’d from tyranny to God.”

XIX.

Soon Campbell rose, renown’d for arts and arms,
Free in the senate—bold in battle-field;
Now awed with Roman fire and personal charms;
Now freedom’s champion—now his sovereign’s shield;
His country’s thunders early taught to wield,
Witness Ramillies, Oudenarde, Ghent, and Lisle.
Tournay, Minorca, to his prowess yield;
While spake the master-spirits of the Isle,
And Pope and Thomson strove to laud the Young Argyle!

NOTES TO YOUNG ARGYLE;
or,
STANZAS TO LETHINGTON

Stanza ii. page 314.

_I love to view thy turrets towering grey,
Which braved the fiery blast of feudal times,
And still unbroke their lofty front display._

The following verses, addressed to Lethington, which are so descriptive of an ancient chateau of that period, were copied from the Maitland MS. (preserved at Cambridge,) by Mr Pinkerton, and published in his collection of Ancient Scottish Poems. The poem appears to have been written by an “unknawin makar,” who, in gratitude for the “treitting and gud cheir” which he met with at Lethington, could “nae mair silence hauld, but put furth his mynd to rehers the joy” which he found in the castle. We shall confine ourselves to the descriptive parts, as being most interesting to posterity, leaving out the introductory similes respecting Virgil’s Mantua and Catullus’s Verone.

IN PRAYSE OF LETHINGTOUN.

To speik of thee, O Lethingtoun!
Quhilk standis fair on Tyne;
Quhais worthie praysis and renown
Transcendis my ingyne.
Thou merits Homer and Virgil,
Thy worschip till advance,
And put thy name, digne and nobill,
In dew rememberance.

Thy tour and fortres lairge and lang,
Thy nychhours dois excell;
And for thy wallis, thik and strang,
Thou justly beirs the bell.
Thy groundis deip, and toppis hie
Uprising in the air;
Thy vaultis plesand ar to sie,
Thay ar so greit and fair.

Thy work to luik on is delyite,
So clein, so sound, so evin;
Thy alryne[21] is a marvall greit,
Upreiching to the hevin.
O quhat plesour is to be thair,
As Phœbus dois upryise,
To sie the wood and feildis fair,
Quhilk round about thee lyis!

* * * * *

Greit was the work to houke the ground,
And thy foundatioun cast;
Bot greater it was thee to found,
And end thee at the last.
I merveill that he did not feir,
Quha rasit thee on hicht,
That na foundatioun sould thee beir
Bot thou sould sink for wecht.

* * * * *

Bot the to plenisch and fulfill,
And mak thy worke compleit,
Quhoso it richt considder will,
Wes worke of no les spreit.
Thy beddis soft, and tapeis fair,
Thy treitting and gud cheir;
Gif I the treuth wald now declair,
I wait thow hes no peir.

* * * * *

Thy arbour and thy orchard grene,
I cannot pass it by,
A thing maist semelie to be sene
Under thy wall dois ly;
Maist plesand place to mak repair,
Thairin to sit or gang;
Thy knottis; and thy alleis fair,
Quhilk are bayth braid and lang.

Thy buttis, biggit neir thame by,
Sa suire, but sone or wind,
Maist plesand place of archerie
That e’er I yit could find.
Thow hes a thousand plesoures ma,
That my toung cannot tell,
O happie war he that micht ay
Bot troubill in thee dwell!

And happie art thou, sic a place,
That few thy mak are sene;
Bot yit mair happie far that race
To quhome thou dois pertene.
Quha dois not knaw the Maitland bluid,
The best in all this land;
In quhilk sumtyme the honour stuid
And worship of Scotland?

Stanza viii. page 317.

_While, through the copsewood, Coalston’s turrets gleam,
And still remind us of her Margaret’s ominous dream._

The Enchanted Pear of Coalston, which was considered a sufficient dowry for a lady, was the gift, it is supposed, of Hugh Gifford, the magician of Yester. “The heiress of his family,” says Sharpe, “married Sir William Hay of Locharret, ancestor of John, third Lord Hay of Yester, whose daughter Jean became the wife of Mr. Brown of Coalston. This lady’s dowry consisted of a single pear, probably enchanted by her ancestor, which her father declared to be invaluable; assuring the Laird of Coalston, that while the pear was preserved in the family, it would certainly continue to flourish. This palladium is still carefully treasured up; but there is a mark on one side, made by the eager teeth of a lady of Coalston, who, while breeding, longed for the forbidden fruit, and was permitted to take one bite by her too-indulgent husband; in consequence, some of the best farms on the estate very speedily came to market. Crawford, the peerage-writer, thus mentions the superstition in his MS. account of the Browns of Coalston:—‘They had a pear in their family, which they esteemed yer palladium; it’s reported, that Betty Mackenzie, when she married George Brown of Colstoun, the first night she came to the house of Colstoun, dreamed that she had eat the pear, which her father-in-law looked on as a bad omen, and expressed great fears that she should be an instrument in the destruction of the house of Colstoun.’”—See _Sharpe’s Prefatory Notice to Law’s Memoriallis_, p. 14. Notwithstanding these predictions, the house of Coalston still flourishes in the female line, in the person of Lady Dalhousie.

Stanza xii. page 319.

_With Charles fair Lennox might have shared the throne;
For o’er his heart she held despotic sway._

_Frances Teresa_, Duchess of Lennox, was daughter to the Hon. Walter Stuart, M.D., son of Walter, first Lord Blantyre. This lady was of exquisite beauty, which, if justly represented in a puncheon made by Rottiere, engraver of the Mint, exhibits the finest face that perhaps ever appeared.—_Mem. Gramont_, vol. i. p. 272. Charles II. was desperately enamoured of her, and it was said there was a design on foot to get him divorced from the queen, that he might marry this lady;—but to his great indignation, _and to her honour_, she espoused Charles, sixth Duke of Richmond and Lennox. Bishop Burnet says, the king disgraced Lord Clarendon for not preventing this marriage. Charles’s romantic regard is evident from his ordering a coinage, as mentioned above, whereon her portrait was represented as Britannia on the reverse.—See _Fenton’s Notes to Waller_. There is a portrait of this celebrated beauty in the Memoires de Gramont, and in Pinkerton’s Iconographia Scotica; as also a fine full-length painting in Lethington-house. The latter likewise contains, among many other fine family-likenesses, excellent portraits of Queen Mary, the Marquis of Montrose, Lord Belhaven, and the Admirable Crichton.

THE
MURDER
OF
SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
=In Two Fits.=

——Blood will have blood:
Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;
Augurs, and understood relations, have
By maggot pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth
The secret’st man of blood.
SHAKSPEARE.

Sir James Stanfield, the subject of the following ballad, held the rank of Colonel in the parliamentary army. After Cromwell’s victory at Dunbar, he came to Scotland, and established a woollen manufactory at Newmills (now Amisfield,) in the neighbourhood of Haddington, under the immediate patronage of the protectorate. At the Restoration, Parliament granted certain immunities and privileges to Colonel Stanfield, on whom Charles II. conferred the honour of knighthood.—_Sir G. B. Hepburn’s View Agri._ His prospects were, however, soon blasted; for, in 1687, he was found murdered, as was supposed, by his eldest son Philip, whom he had disinherited for his debauchery. This unfortunate person was tried, condemned, and executed for the murder 24th February 1688.—_Fountainhall’s Dec._ vol. i. p. 484.

SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
=Fit the First.=

Sir James has to the greenwood gone,
And he has gone alone;
Sir James will walk the live-long day,
And tell his mind to none.

He has not ta’en his dappled steed,
Nor yet his spotted hound;
But wildly, with his grey head bare,
He treads the dewy ground.

Now books and board have ceased to charm,
He walks like one deranged,
Or troubled ghost, at dead of night,
From earth and Heaven estranged.

The kimmer sat behind the thorn,
Bleaching her linens clean,
When she beheld a leal old man,
Come pacing o’er the green.

“O woes me! on my wicked son,”
She heard the old man say;
“O woes me! on my wicked son,
“That kills me day by day.

“He spends his days in folly’s haunts,
“His nights in courts obscene;
“And, oh! ere life’s meridian day,
“A begging he’ll be seen.

“O woes me! on my lady proud,
“She’s leagured with my son;
“They wish my head in a clay-cold bed—
“I feel their curse begun.

“O woman’s love is light and vain,
“It’s easy aye to bear;
“It blossoms like the flower in June,
“To fade at the fall o’ the year.

“Time was, with heart elate with joy,
“Cheer’d by my sov’reign’s smile,
“When self-applause and honour’s meed
“Did all my cares beguile;

“But as some pine, that braves the storm
“And rears on high its head,
“Of all its vernal worth is shorn
“By reptiles which it fed:

“So by the inmates of my house
“I’m wearied and undone;
“My wife’s unfaithful to my bed,
“I’m hated by my son.

“His crimes, conspicuous as yon orb,
“Are blazing far abroad,
“Denouncing wrath, he strikes the priest
“Even in the house of God.

“He curses church—he curses king—
“His curses fall on me!
“But, Heaven! hear a father’s prayer;
“For vengeance dwells with thee!”

The kimmer sobb’d,—then straight arose
To comfort the lorn knight;
She loosed her loud loquacious tongue,
But he was out of sight.

“O leeze me on this warld’s care,
“’Tis true as tongue can tell,
“The great anes o’ the earth,” quo’ she,
“They just are like oursel.

“O whither has the auld man gane?
“I trow he’s no himsel’;
“And much I dread he’s ta’en the road
“Down bie the haunted well!

“From yonder bush a voice of wo
“Comes mournful on the breeze,
“The accents, as they meet my ear,
“My very soul doth freeze.”

‘O spare a father’s life!’ it says,
‘Avert the fatal blow;
‘O let these hoary hairs repose
‘Till time shall lay them low!’

As springs a tiger from the brake,
Two ruffians fiercely sprung,
And with a ’kerchief close comprest,
Soon gagg’d the old man’s tongue.

They tied his throat with hempen cord,
Then foot and arm they wheel,
Till crash’d his windpipe like the ice
Beneath the courser’s heel.

The kimmer thrice assay’d to speak;
She thrice assay’d to fly;
But kimmer’s blood forsook her heart,
Her palsied veins ran dry.

Sunk, motionless, upon the turf,
She lay like marble stone;
A mortal image but remain’d,
With all sensation gone.

Sir James comes not at breakfast hour,
He does not come to dine;
For him they search both house and bower
Upon the verdant Tyne.

There is a gloom on every face,
And every heart is sore;
There is a sadness on the earth,
And rural mirth is o’er.

Now all is silent in the hall,
Where all was noise before;
The menials tremble as they list
Each grating, opening door.

The lady to her chamber hied,
And made her silent moan,
And wonder’d much within herself
Where her true knight had gone.

Her heart swell’d big with dread remorse;
Her brain boil’d as with fire;
And much she mourn’d that she took part
With son against his sire.

“O wo betide the cruel youth!
“And leman’s treach’rous smile,
“That e’er seduced my foolish heart
“To work my husband guile.”

She laid her head on pillow soft,
But, ah! ’twas not to sleep;
She paced her chamber o’er and o’er,
And waken’d but to weep;

For when those aching eyes were closed,
Unused to the salt tear,
As oft the lady, starting, thought
Tyne gurgled in her ear.

Why does the house-dog bay so loud?
He’s growl’d since depth of noon,
And now he hunts his own foot-sound,
And shadow by the moon.

Why does the howlet whoop so bold
At the lone hour of night?
Why dances on the river’s marge
The meteor’s blue dead-light?

Why do the grating hinges crash,
The windows rise and fall?
And that unearthly melody
Come sighing from the hall?

Alas! ’tis wayward phantasy
That’s working in the brain;
For silent is that mansion now
As death’s most drear domain.

When the cock clapp’d his speckled wing,
And day began to shine,
O there were nought but drowsy eyes
Upon the banks of Tyne!

The woods and glens were peopled o’er
With matron, youth, and maid,
Who search’d from Linton’s rocky linn
To Morham’s mossy shade.

Sir James’s steed stands by the pool,
It thirsts—but will not drink;
Nor bridle rein, nor gentle hand,
Will urge him by the brink.

’Tis merry in the greenwood now,
The bugles sound afar,
The trees upwave their dark-green locks
Above the sylvan war.

The beagles plunge into the pool,
The horses shake their manes,—
A corpse is dragg’d towards the shore,
O God!—it is Sir James!

O why does vengeance sleep in Heaven!
Or does it only fall
On guiltless heads, that daring crime
Still rules this earthly ball?

Or does it smoulder but to strike,
Like Etna’s bowels to burst,
And with a tenfold vengeance hurl
Her bolts on the accurst?

END OF FIT THE FIRST.

SIR JAMES STANFIELD.
=Fit the Second.=

Let’s briefly put on manly readiness,
And meet i’ the hall together,
And question this most bloody piece of work,
To know it further.—SHAKSPEARE.
The lady shriek’d, and aye she sobb’d,
As she wou’d burst in twain;
“O peace,” quoth she, “I’ll ne’er know more,
“Since my loved knight is slain!

“O pale, pale are those cheeks that flush’d
“With manhood’s ruddy hue;
“And glazed those sparkling eyes in death,
“That spake a soul so true!”

“Go saddle ye the swiftest steed
“That’s snorting in the sta’,
“And ride, go ride, my trusty serf,
“As fast as ye can ca’.

“Ride by Edina’s lofty towers,
“My Philip bring to me;
“For much I dread a natural death
“His father didna dee.”

They search’d the city through and through
From night till dawn of day;
But the wicked youth they could not find
Till his sire was in the clay.

O then he made a loud lament!
And swore himself he’d kill;
But ere a night and day elapsed
He did not look so ill.

And soon Newmills’s mansion fair
With merriment did shake,
As if the burial bread had been
Bewitch’d to bridal cake.

And lightly grew the lady’s heart,
And, O! she busked proud;
And in her sable weeds appear’d
Like beauty in a cloud.

Alas! that aged men should e’er
The youthful virgin wed;
Alas! that youthful wife should e’er
Forsake the marriage bed.