Chapter XV: Act V: Scene I (5)

Fann’d by the balmy breathing west,
On green Dunpender’s[25] brow I rest,
Musing on cliffs and towers below,
Where forests wave and rivulets flow;
Far, in the gold-emblazon’d sky,
The Pentland-hills in grandeur lie,
Where erst the gentle shepherd stray’d,
Fond lilting to his pastoral maid;
While Arthur Seat his shadow shews
Like lion couchant, in repose;
And the tower-crown’d Calton gleams,
Bathed in day’s departing beams;
And mingled with the hues of even,
The Fifean shores seem propping heaven.
Oft through the opening shades between
The silvery Forth is winding seen,
Where vessels with their white sails glide,
Like insects sporting on the tide,
That glisten in the noontide ray,
And with the evening fade away.
As the blithe lark that long has stray’d
Through distant woodland’s mazy shade,
Bewilder’d turns on wearied wing,
To thickets where her nestlings sing,
So fondly turns my partial eye
To dearer scenes that nearer lie,
Where plantings fair and hawthorn hedge
Shadow Garleton’s sloping edge,
And through shades of softer green
Beanston’s modest face is seen,
While in yonder flowery lawn,
So calm at eve, so bright at dawn,
Shooting from the leafy bowers
Amisfield’s massy palace towers;
And farther on, in misty clouds,
The church her solemn figure shrouds,
Haddina’s fane sublimely hoar,
Where good St Francis reign’d of yore.
The organ’s voice no longer steals
Through her aisles in solemn peals,
Dimm’d her lamp, whose glowworm ray
Cheer’d lonely pilgrim’s midnight way.
The mass has ceased—the monks are gone;
For time has sapp’d the papal throne.
O Edwin! thou wilt ne’er forget
How lagg’d the hours before we met
To muse within that hallow’d fane.
Tired of the world’s bustling scene,
We gladly hail’d the close of day,
In peaceful star-light shades to stray,
When moonlight shed enchantment round
O’er all the church’s holy ground,
While echo’d to thy flute’s deep thrill
The Gothic arch, the murmuring rill;
Then thought we of mysterious sounds,
While pacing the dark echoing grounds:
Such sounds as startle with affright
The waylaid swain at dead of night;
And though our cares were never few,
Still Fancy brighten’d all she drew,
And Hope those flowery visions wrought,
That perish’d with maturer thought.
Fair Tyne! thy river smoothly glides
To mingle with the ocean’s tides,
And though thy windings may not boast
The rushing stream in cataracts lost,
O’erhung with ivied rocks and woods,
Like Clyde or Esk’s romantic floods,
Yet Sol, in all his flaming chase,
Beholds no river’s crystal face,
That waters meads more rich with grain
Than those he meets on Lothian’s plain;
Whether by Crichton’s lordly towers
Thy rivulet winds ’neath lofty bowers;
Whether by Salton’s coverts gay,
Where patriot Fletcher loved to stray;
Or where, near Preston’s ancient fane,
Thy waters mingle with the main.
Next wandering down thy stream I spy
Stevenson’s woods that sombre lie,
Spreading thick their branches dun,
Bronzed with the setting sun;
Clouds of rooks are sailing near,
Stunning Meditation’s ear,
As she sits with sober look,
Gazing on the running brook.
Is there aught can sooth the mind,
Like the moanings of the wind?
Is there aught that can recall
Our thoughts, like water’s constant fall?
Beneath me, Hailes delights to trace
In shady Tyne his furrow’d face:
Though there the peasant rears his shed
Where Valour sleeps in gory bed,
Yet Tyne has seen that castle’s crest
More brightly gleaming on her breast,
When, in a dark and stormy hour,
His arms received the regal flower;
I give, forgetting Mary’s crimes,
(In pity for those faithless times,)
The tear the generous heart bestows
When weeping over beauty’s woes;
For all that birth and beauty gave
Was to betray—and not to save:
Thus, in some lone sequester’d cot,
Contented with her humble lot,
Far from Ambition’s giddy steeps
The peasant girl on roses sleeps,
While she whom fawning courts caress
Must drink the dregs of bitterness.
The lofty Law[26] on yonder lands
In towering Alpine grandeur stands,
Where, as tradition says, were seen
A fairy host in garbs of green,
Who, when the housewife barr’d the door,
Would curse the dairy’s mantling store,
And snatch the stolen child, and free
Its form from dull mortality.
Gleaming, where birds of snowy hue
Their jubilee spend, the Bass I view;
And dimly frowns Tantallon’s holde,
Where Douglas reign’d, too rashly bold;
While Tyningham’s delicious woods
Luxuriant rush to ocean’s floods;
And soon my rapt eye rests afar
Where shadows mantle old Dunbar.
But now the thrush with plaintive lay
Charms the soft closing ear of day;
The sinking sun with blushing fires
Crimsons heaven, and fast retires,
Bathing in hues of browner light
Linton’s hamlets gleaming bright;
A thousand birds their vespers pour,
And droops its head the drowsy flower,
As like yon star, that rises slow,
The May’s pale light begins to glow,
Revolving o’er the waters hoary,
Now lost like beams of joy in sorrow;
While down the mountain’s side I wind,
I often pause to gaze behind,
As lovers linger to survey
Their parting shadows steal away.

TO
THE MOON AND THE EVENING STAR.

Thou Moon, with thine attendant Star,
That gilds the dusky brow of night,
Thy spangled path thou’st held afar,
Since from the ocean glancing bright
Thou burst upon the seaman’s sight;
And long o’er mountain, wood, and dale,
Thou’st held thy lofty aerial flight,
Firm as the rock—free as the gale!—

Now, from his dark and lonely cell,
The weeping captive sees thee rise,
While Memory bids his bosom swell
With Recollection’s fondest ties;
For now beneath thy splendour lies,
In all its joy, his native land,
Where he has traced, in brighter skies,
Thy spangled course, on Scotia’s strand.

The maiden hails thy shining face
Come blithely peeping o’er the hill,
As if her walks thou sought to trace
In shady bower by winding rill.
O when to love’s delightful thrill!
Hearts meet beneath thy pensive beam,
The hours flow on so soft and still,
That life appears a fairy dream.

The pilgrim, worn with want and toil,
Had slept ’midst India’s deadly dew,
And on the stranger’s arid soil,
To friends and foes had breathed adieu,
Had not thy crescent’s splendid hue
Illumed the shades that hung around,
And brought the creole’s hut to view,
Where friends and soft repose were found.

The sailor, in his nightly rounds,
Encircled by the sea and sky,
Beholds thee, as his watch he sounds,
A distant friend—yet ever nigh!
To other climes though fast he fly,
Yet still thou lov’st to meet him there,
As when upon the banks of Eye
He breathed to Jean the parting prayer.

SONGS.

THE FALSE ALARM.
1803.

On the crest of Dunselaw the red beacon is blazing,
That startles the swan as she sails in Henpoo’!
Home Castle and Hounam the signals are raising,
And far gleams St Abb o’er the waves curling blue.
Arm, arm! gallant yeomen! to meet the fierce foeman,
His eagles are planted on Lothian’s fair shore;
Your cities are burning, your maidens are mourning,
To victory march, as your fathers of yore.

Come from the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Teviot;
Come from where Leader and Whitadder gleams;
Come from the sylvan Jed; come from the Cheviot,
Fierce as the thunder-cloud, pure as your streams.
Swear by the cairns of your hills ere you leave them—
Swear by the heroes in Freedom’s cause slain,
That your swords will be bared until victory sheathe them,
If e’er you return to your mountains again.

On the dark heights of Cheviot her sabres are glancing,
With Hagerston’s horsemen in battle array,
While Berwickshire’s legions are blithely advancing,
And Selkirk and Roxburgh rush to the fray.
From Lammermoor’s heather the warriors gather,
Their swords though a thousand, their hearts are but one;
While Dunse and Dunbar send their sons to the war,
To join British veterans led on by brave Don.

Return to your revels and beauty’s fair charms;
Return, gallant yeomen! where peace beams serene;
Those signals were but patriotic alarms,[27]
The foes whom you seek now repose by the Seine.
But should foreign ranks ever tread the Tweed’s banks,
Or a hostile Flotilla in Forth ever lie,
You will rush to the shore as your fathers of yore,
And like patriots conquer, or patriots die!

GEORGE THE FOURTH’S WELCOME.

AUGUST, 1822.

Sweet, Sir, for your courtesie,
When ye come by the Bass, then;
For the love ye bear to me,
Buy me a keeking glass, then.—OLD BALLAD.
Come, list the pibroch’s martial strain,
That ca’s the clans to Lothian’s plain;
For Scotland’s got her king again,
She welcomes royal Geordie!

CHORUS.

_O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,
Lang, lang, lang o’ coming;
O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,
Welcome, royal Geordie!_
O blaw, ye breezes! favouring blaw
Around North Berwick’s lofty Law,
And gently on the squadron fa’,
That brings us royal Geordie!

The king has pass’d St Abb’s rough head,
Now loyal laird of Spott mak’ speed,
Your guns and bonfire quickly feed,
And welcome royal Geordie.

Dunbar, your ancient fort prepare,
(In a’ that’s guid you tak’ a share,)
Your burghers to the beach repair,
And welcome royal Geordie.

The cannon’s voice is heard afar,
The royal fleet has pass’d Dunbar;—
Upon his breast he wears a star,
A stately lad is Geordie!

Thou ancient crag, romantic Bass!
Salute the squadron as they pass:
Let Janet get her keeking glass,
And busk her braw for Geordie.

North Berwick’s lads your sweethearts bring,
Your idle violins blithely string,
Till Fidra’s isle and Craig Leith ring
A blithe salute to Geordie.

He leaves his royal rich domains,
That stand so beauteous by the Thames,
To see our blooming nymphs and swains,
A courteous lad is Geordie.

And, O! amang our mountains blue,
Dwell loyal chiefs, to valour true;
And beauteous dames, may wind a clue
Around the heart o’ Geordie.

Thrice welcome to green Albyn’s shore,
As Bruce and Wallace were of yore;—
Our ancient kings the lion bore,
And sae does royal Geordie!

Auld Holyrood again looks gay,
Her martial files, in bright array,
Are glitt’ring in the gouden ray,
To welcome royal Geordie.

And Calton’s terrace-walks so green
Are fringed with tents and culverin;
On Sal’sbury’s craigs the same is seen,
To welcome royal Geordie.

From hill to hill the tidings fly,
Proud Arthur’s crest is blazing high,
Trapren glowers up, and lights the sky,
To welcome royal Geordie.

Dunedin’s streets are in a blaze,
As when great Nelson ruled the seas!
Is Wellington upon the breeze?—
O, no! it’s royal Geordie!—

Come, Scotia! tune your aiken reed,
Sir Walter’s blithely ta’en the lead;
And blaw your chanters till they screed
To welcome royal Geordie!

The wine-cup, flowing, pass around,
A flourish let the trumpets sound,
While ships and castle’s cliffs resound
A blithe salute to Geordie!

SONG,
WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION, AND SUNG AT A DINNER GIVEN IN THE ASSEMBLY
ROOM, ON THE HADDINGTON ST JOHN’S KILWINNING LODGE LAYING THE FOUNDATION
STONE OF THE EARL OF HOPETOUN’S MONUMENT ON BYRES-HILL, 3D MAY, 1824.

While nations enjoy the glad blessings of peace,
We meet in the hall to remember the brave,
Who bought with their blood bonded Europe’s release,
And fought for their country’s repose or a grave.
Then charge, brethren, charge, a full bumper is due
To Abercrombie’s name
And his comrade in fame,
Great Hopetoun, in battle so val’rous and true.

O bright were the laurels they won on that strand,
Where Gallia’s tricolour’d flag was unfurl’d;
They conquer’d Napoleon’s Egyptian band,
Invincible deem’d by the rest of the world.
With Hope and Abercrombie, O ne’er be forgot
Our Ramsay and Hay,[28]
Both worthy the bay,
Where the battle is raging ’mongst sabres and shot.

While Scotia weeps on Corunna’s sad shore
The fate of her warriors, Iberia mourns,
And hallows the memory of glorious Moore,
Who died like a soldier in victory’s arms!
As lone on the field her Baird wounded lay,
Great Hopetoun when crost,
Of himself was a host,
And led his brave comrades triumphant away.

Then high raise the cairn upon the green hill,
To valour ’twill rouse as we gaze on the pile,
Though the eyes of the veteran with tears it may fill,
And cloud as she passes young beauty’s fair smile.
Now peace be to Hopetoun, who rests with the brave,
While Ramsay and Hay
Must contend for the bay,
Should the tempest of war in our valleys e’er rave.

MASONIC SONG.
WRITTEN AND SUNG ON OCCASION OF MR WILLIAM FERME’S PORTRAIT (PAINTED BY
WATSON) BEING PLACED IN THE MASONIC LODGE OF HADDINGTON, 1823.

O Willie is a canty chiel!
The mason-art he kens sae weel,
To raise a laugh or—raise the de’il—
It’s just the same to Willie, O!
We’ve had him lang, we’ll haud him fast,
This night auld Fame shall blaw a blast,
While far away our cares we cast,
And drink success to Willie, O!

Our sacred art, by Heav’n refined,
That joins and blesses all mankind,
For such as Willie was design’d,
Wha counts each man his brither, O!
Wi’ mystic lore, and humorous art,
He steals sae o’er the craftsmen’s heart,
That when we meet we scarce can part—
Sae blest wi’ ane anither, O!

Immortal be great Hiram’s name,
And Solomon’s undying fame!—
We hail their bright united flame,
Reflected in our Willie, O!
The rule and square is still his badge;
Nor orient seer, nor Tyrian sage,
Could ever handle plumb or gauge
Like our great master, Willie, O!

How oft our little social band
Has met beneath his high command,
While beauteous order round did stand,
Supported aye by Willie, O!
No faction e’er our lodge divides,
Where truth and friendship still abides;
Nor ever shall, while here presides
Our gude auld master, Willie, O!

THE GARDENER’S SONG.

A garden was the blest retreat
Where love at first began,
When Eve was queen of womankind,
And Adam, king of man;
And ever since the garden’s been
The sacred bower of love,
Where youth and innocence convene,
In friendship’s paths to rove.
Then, brethren, round the goblet crown
With draughts of rosy wine,
And drink the memory of our sire,
Who rear’d the purple vine.

To Noah, that aquatic lord,
A bumper next be given;
The second gard’ner on record,
The favour’d child of heaven;
’Twas he at first distill’d those sweets
That cheer our social hours,
And strew’d the darker paths of life
With artificial flowers.
Then, brethren, round the goblet crown
With draughts of rosy wine,
And drink the patriarch’s memory
Who first distill’d the vine.

And, lastly, toast the Hebrew sage,
Who sat on Judah’s throne,
Surrounded by his harem fair,
So blest to look upon.
Oh, when he sought the garden’s walk!
Its flowery pomp to see,
The virgin lily, on its stalk,
Was richer far than he!
Then, sons of flowers, the goblet crown,
And toast our art divine!
’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,
Who rear the purple vine.

The world, since creation’s dawn,
Has own’d the gard’ner’s skill;
We paint with flowers the sunny lawn,
And shade with groves the hill.
Physicians borrow from our stores
The glory of their art;
We feed the hungry, cleed the bare,
And balm to life impart.
And woman, Nature’s darling child,
Looks never half so fair,
As when the rose-bud decks her breast,
And garlands crown her hair.

Our friendship like the ivy spreads,
But, grafted as the oak,
Secure it stands in sun and storm,
Against each random shock.
Our hearts are as the snowdrop pure,
That dips in crystal wave,
But, like the thistle of the hill,
Oppression’s blast we brave;
And he that’s false in heart or hand,
Oblivious may he sink,
May hemlock be his laurel-crown,
And wormwood be his drink!

O! may the flowery paths of youth,
Where weeds too often glow,
Conduct us to those green retreats
Where fruits autumnal grow;
And when the blighting dews of age
Have chill’d our drooping wing,
May HE, who heavenly Eden keeps,
Give us a second spring.
Then, brethren, round the goblet crown
With draughts of rosy wine,
’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,
Who rear the purple vine.

THE
HAMMERMAN’S SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A HADDINGTON HAMMERMAN.

You may talk of your gard’ners and masons so fine,
Their craft is so ancient, ’tis all but divine;
But where were their tools or their implements made
Till old Tubal Cain the grand hammer display’d?
Like barbarous nations, with wood and with stone
They work’d in the dark till the hammerman shone,
Then the plough and the trowel on the anvil had birth,
And fair Cultivation descended to earth.
Descended to earth—descended to earth—
Then fair Cultivation descended to earth.

He curbs the fierce steed in its fiery career,
Gives the bit to the bridle—the point to the spear;—
When the thunder-charged leven terrific doth play,
His magnetic rod leads it harmless away.
The hammerman’s art is both nice and sublime,
He tells to a moment the marches of Time;
Yes: the hour-telling watch, let them match it who will,
We owe to the hammerman’s glorious skill.

When Bell and her tabby sit down by the fire,
And a cup of Souchong is her pleasant desire,
As the nice-shining kettle its melody hums,
In fancy her sweetheart, the hammerman, comes!
May the sons of the anvil, the vice, and the file,
Have hearts pure as gold, and untainted with guile.
Whether on the earth’s surface, or deep in its mines,
Success to the hammer wherever it shines!

THE
COUNTRY LAIRD’S COURTSHIP.

O far hae I wander’d through frost and through snaw,
My mither aye tauld me that I was to blame
In courting the lasses sae flirtish and braw,
So I’ll just tak’ my staff and I’ll haud awa’ hame.

CHORUS.

_And it’s hooly, hooly, up the brae side;
And it’s hooly, hooly, haud awa’ hame;
My neighbours wad think that I was nae John Rue,
Kenn’d they the errand that I had gane._

This morning I met the sun high in the muirs,
But now in the wave he has dipt his red chin,
While I’ve waited on Janet, and counted the hours,
Exposed to the sneers o’ the hale o’ her kin.

To buy a new cledin’ I sald my auld cow,
In the eyes of the lassie to mak’ me look fine,
While I’ve just got ae kiss, hauf an inch frae her mou,
Though I bribed her auld dad wi’ the wale o’ my swine.

He took up his staff, made a bow wi’ his bannet,
(Thinks he we’ll no meet in a hurry again:)
He gave a bit sigh when he thought upon Janet,
He dighted his een, and was better again.

As down the fir plantin’ he gaed to the mill,
O wha did he see but young Jenny, I ween?
Wha lean’d on the auld doitit laird o’ the hill,
A body that weel might her grandfather been.

“Now deil tak’ the lassie, an’ deil tak’ the laird!”
John jumped and roar’d as he was na himsel;
He cross’d like a maukin down Lizzy’s kail-yard,
Nor stopt till he plunged in the baker’s draw-well.

O, love it is warm—but water is cool!
And a frost-bitten body is ill to endure:
The lasses had led Johnny Rue like a fool,
Yet for ance in his life he has met wi’ his cure.

But, waes me! wee Johnnie’s been couthie of late,
Which maks the auld wife shake her head by the fire;
For he casts a sheep’s-ee on his young cousin Kate,
And goud often warms up a lassie’s desire.

MY AULD MAIDEN AUNTY

I’ve naething to do but to sit and to spin,
And crack wi’ my auld maiden aunty;
Our gossiping neighbours come dribbling in,
And aye keep a body fu’ canty, fu’ canty,
And aye keep a body fu’ canty.

But our thoughts, like the weather, are given to change,
I sigh’d day and night to get married;
And I’m sure gif there aught like a man had made love,
His suit wi’ me soon he had carried—had carried—
His suit wi’ me soon he had carried.

My aunty’s sae peevish, her temper’s sae sour,
She wearies us a’ wi’ inspection;
She frowns at the mark o’ a prin on the floor,
Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection—Perfection—
Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection.

The hale o’ her pleasure is snuff and green tea,
And her auld-fashion’d satins to number;
Ae day she wad try how her hoops fitted me,
And ne’er squeezed my body asunder—asunder—
And ne’er squeezed my body asunder.

She sneers like the fox when I speak about men,
I wonder what she makes a wark at—
For I’m sure if her mother’s example she’d ta’en,
She never had stood in the market—the market—
She never had stood in the market.

But wha but our neighbour’s son Johnny’s come hame
Since the wars were so happily ended?
He tells me my beauty has kindled a flame—
My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it,—she kenn’d it—
My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it.

’Twas only yestreen like a statue I sat,
When to hand me the kettle he hurried,
He trod on the tail o’ my aunt’s tabby cat,
She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried—brute worried—
She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried.

To-morrow she’ll scandal the hale o’ the sex,
And ca’ me the vilest o’ ony;
For I’ll bid her guid day ere the sun’s in the east,
And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny—wi’ Johnny—
And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny.

TO ——.

Give me, sweet Maid! before we part,
One beauteous curl of thine;
And I will wear it next my heart,
Twined in a wreath of mine;
And should the gaudy world e’er wring
A moment’s sigh from thee,
That gentle ringlet, love, will bring
Thy memory back to me.

When gazing on that amulet dear,
Thou’lt bless my raptured sight,
As when thou beauteous did’st appear
In hours of soft delight.
Though homage only is thy due,
Thou first of womankind,
Thou’lt never meet a heart so true
As _his_ thou leav’st behind.

THE END.

PRINTED BY OLIVER & BOYD.

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Footnote 1:

Thametis was daughter to Loth, king of the Picts, who gave his name to
Lothian.—_Spotswood._

Footnote 2:

We meet with a similar legend of a Welsh saint in Williams’s History
of Monmouthshire. _Teilo_, “when slain at the altar, devotees
contended with so much virulence for the reputation of possessing his
body, that the priest, _to avoid scandalous divisions_, found three
miraculous bodies of the saint, as similar, according to the phrase
used on the occasion, as one egg to another; and miracles were equally
performed at the tomb of all the three.”

Footnote 3:

An old woman in Dunbar has a flag, which is said to have been borne by
the Covenanters at Bothwell Bridge. Its texture is light-blue silk.
The inscription on one side, in gilt letters, “_For Christ and his
truth_,” and on the reverse, in red, “_No quarter for ye active
enemies of the Covenant_.” The motto is surmounted by a Hebrew
inscription, in gilt letters, signifying, “For the covenant of
Jehovah.” This flag belonged to Henry Hall of Haughead, who took an
active part in the transactions at that time, and held a command in
the army from the skirmish at Drumclog to their defeat at Bothwell
Bridge. On his death the flag of course fell to his son. Young Hall,
on his death-bed, bequeathed it to James Cochran, shoemaker in
Greenlaw, a noted Cameronian, who presented it to Michael Naismyth,
Edinburgh. It was destined to return to Cochran’s family again; for,
at Naismyth’s death he bequeathed it to James Raeburn, late
cabinet-maker in Dunbar, the son-in-law of Cochran, and it is now held
most sacred by his widow.

Footnote 4:

A mineral well near Tweedmouth.

Footnote 5:

Tradition derives the name of Berwick from this strange etymology;
also from being a rendezvous of _bears_, which are blazoned in the
town arms.

Footnote 6:

The lines distinguished by inverted commas, are a literal paraphrase
of the oration ascribed to Lady Seton by _Boece_.

Footnote 7:

At the siege of Bayonne, by the Counts de Foix and de Dunois, in 1450,
there was a similar vision seen, or imagined to have been seen, to
serve a similar purpose. “On Friday, the 20th August, a little before
sunrise, the sky, bright and clear, a _white cross_ was seen in the
heavens by the king’s army, and even by the English in Bayonne, for
half an hour. Those in the town, who were desirous of returning to the
French, took the _red crosses_ from their banners and pennons, saying,
that since it pleased God they should become Frenchmen, they would all
wear _white crosses_!”—_Montstrelet’s French Chron. by Johnes_, vol.
ix. p. 188.

Footnote 8:

The stone in which the English standard was fixed at Bannockburn was
called the Bore Stane; but this appears in nowise applicable to the
present subject, except by name. The epithet Boar was often applied to
those who carried the emblem of this animal on their shield; hence, in
the poem on the Battle of Floddenfield, Richard III. is distinguished
as “the raging Boar, who, at Bosworth, with all his host, was
over-thrown.” We must conclude, that the person who fell here either
went by this uncouth epithet, or had a boar for his device.

Footnote 9:

St Abb’s-head, a well-known promontory on the coast of Berwickshire,
where are the remains of a chapel, is said to have derived its
designation from Ebba, only daughter to Edelfrid, King of
Northumberland, who, on her father being slain in battle by the East
Angles, made her escape in an open boat, as narrated in the poem, and
landed on that point of land to which she gave her name.—See
_Holinshed’s Chron._

Footnote 10:

The old Franciscan church of Haddington.

Footnote 11:

Playfair, a notable warlock, on being taken prisoner in Dalkeith
steeple, whither he had fled for refuge, made several confessions to
Mr Archibald Simpson, minister there;—amongst others, a remarkable
story respecting the family of Newbattle must not be omitted:—“Mark,
the commendator of Newbottle, had by his wife, the Lord Herries’s
daughter, thirty-one children. His lady always kept in her company
wise women or witches, and especially one Margaret Nues (F. Innes),
who fostered his daughter the Lady Borthwick, who was, long after his
death, burnt in Edinburgh for that crime; and my Lady Lothian’s
son-in-law, Sir Alexander Hamilton, told one of his friends, how one
night lying in Preston-grange, pertaining to the said abbey of
Newbottle, he was pulled out of his bed by the said witches and sore
beaten; of which injury, when he complained to his mother-in-law, and
assured her he would complain thereof to the council, she pacified him
by giving him a purse full of gold. That lady thereafter, being vexed
with a cancer in her breast, implored the help of the notable warlock
before-mentioned, who condescended to heal her, but with condition,
that the sore should fall on them which she loved best; whereunto she
agreeing, did convalesce; but the earl, her husband, found the boil in
his throat, of which he died shortly thereafter; and the said
Playfair, being soon apprehended, was made prisoner as above.”—_Scot
of Scotstarvet’s Staggering State of the Scots Statesmen._

Footnote 12:

Carmichael was the second presbyterian minister of Haddington, and
held his pastoral charge betwixt the years 1568 and 1628. The
Presbytery Minutes are preserved so early as 1587; but, as it was not
their province, contain no reference to these depositions. In the
Civil Records, which are preserved anterior to this date, I have not
been able to discover any reference to the arrest or imprisonment of
Agnes Sampson, as in the case of Elizabeth Moodie and others in 1677.

The wood cut, p. 264, represents the old church of North Berwick; and
is copied from a design prefixed to a black-letter pamphlet, entitled
“Newes from Scotland,” which, I presume, contains the depositions
written by the minister of Haddington.

Footnote 13:

An old malt-barn and kiln stood upon the site of the Antiburgher
meeting-house in East Barns, 1820.

Footnote 14:

Miss Janet Hepburn, sister to Colonel Hepburn of Luffness and
Congalton.

Footnote 15:

Sir David Lindsay’s _Papingo_.

Footnote 16:

When on a pilgrimage lately to the scenery of this Ballad, I saw the
far-famed silver belt or chain, now in the possession of a respectable
farmer in Berwickshire, a maternal descendant of the gudewife. It does
not appear, however, to have been a female ornament, but rather the
band for girding the sacerdotal robes of a portly bishop. The chain is
four feet eight inches long, and capable of being contracted, with a
circular plate in the middle, marked with the initials B. C.

Footnote 17:

The old tower of Lethington, we have observed, was built by the
Giffords. Hugh Gifford de Yester, who died in 1267, was esteemed a
notable magician, and formed by magic art, a capacious cavern in his
castle of Yester, called in the country Bohall, (i. e. Hobgoblin
Hall.)—_Fordun_, vol. ii. p. 105. This spacious room, with a vaulted
roof, still remains entire.

Footnote 18:

“On Thursday, in the night, the 13th of March 1572, was the place
of Lethington taken by them of Edinburgh, (some men of Captain
Home’s having the charge of it;) but upon the Sunday, early in the
morning, before they got provision, the Lord Lindsay took it
again.”—_Bannatyne’s Journal, by Dalyell_, p. 333.

Footnote 19:

An old pathway, skirted by a holly hedge, east from the castle, is
still called the _Politician’s Walk_.

Footnote 20:

The park of Lethington, which contained nearly 400 acres, surrounded
by a wall twelve feet high, was built by John, Duke of Lauderdale, on
the Duke of York’s telling him, before his first journey to Scotland,
that he heard there was not a park in the country!

Footnote 21:

The top of a turret, or watch-tower.

Footnote 22:

“Sir George Home was in great credit with king James, after his going
to England, and by him was created first Lord of Berwick, then Earl of
Dumbar. He got all these offices erected in his person, and was made
treasurer, comptroller, and collector, and was sent many times to
Scotland, as the king’s commissioner, to execute justice on the
Borders, which he did with great rigour; but, by the hatred of some of
the courtiers there, he was not suffered long to enjoy that
extraordinary favour; for with some tablets of sugar, given him for
expelling the cold by Secretary Cecil, he was poisoned; which was well
known by the death of Martin Sougir, a doctor, who, by laying his
finger on his heart, and touching it with his tongue, died within a
few days thereafter; and by the relation of his servant of his
chamber, Sir James Bailie, who saw him get the tablets from the said
secretary, and who having eaten a small parcel of them himself, struck
all out in blisters; but by strength of body he escaped death.”—_Sir
John Scot of Scotstarvet’s Staggering State_, p. 34.

Footnote 23:

“In a storm on the 14th November, the Fox man-of-war, Captain Beaver,
was cast away near Dunbar, and all on board perished.”—_Scots Mag._
1746. The last time the ship was discovered was to the eastward of the
May. It is probable that she struck on the rocks west from the castle,
as most of the corpses were found there. The wreck afterwards drifted
and moored in Tyne Sands, where part of the rigging has at times been
seen by aged persons.

Footnote 24:

Witness that part of the crew of the Pallas and Nymph frigates, who
were saved by his exertions, and those acting under him, on the 18th
December, 1810, when the Pallas was stranded on the rocks a little
east from Broxmouth, near Dunbar; and the Nymph below Skateraw, both
in the same night.

Footnote 25:

Dunpender Law, now called Trapren Law, is a rocky isolated hill of an
oval form, situated in East Lothian, which rises about 700 feet above
the level of the sea.

Footnote 26:

North Berwick Law, a beautiful isolated conical hill, on the shore of
East Lothian.

Footnote 27:

The False Alarm is supposed to have arisen from what is called a
_house-heating_, which stood in a conspicuous situation in the
neighbourhood of Dunse. Hounamlaw, in Roxburghshire, mistook the
lights for the beacon of Dunselaw, and she in her turn lighted up when
she saw the former in a blaze. Owing to some delay or negligence,
Blackcastle did not give the alarm, otherwise the whole of the
Lothians would have poured forth their patriot steel. The Berwickshire
yeomanry came to Dunbar, and the Dunse volunteers to Haddington. The
emphatic prayer of an old woman, when the yeomanry were on their march
through Dunse, shews the spirit of a country when threatened by
invasion: “Lord, grant that ye may return victorious, or return no
more!”

Footnote 28:

Hay, Marquis of Tweeddale, and Ramsay, Earl of Dalhousie, both
officers, also engaged in the peninsular war.

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