Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

The judicial records in the case of Jean Livingston are lost, but the process of the murder and the provocation are known from a register of the trial of Robert Weir, the actual perpetrator, and partly also from Jean Livingston’s own relation. Jean Livingston, having conceived a deadly hatred and malice against her husband, John Kincaid, “for the alleged biting of her in the arm and striking her divers times,” sent word by her nurse, Janet Murdo, to Robert Weir, formerly servant to her father, to come to Wariston to speak with her concerning the murdering of him. The nurse, who, we may safely suppose, had been the witness of Kincaid’s brutal behavior, was no unwilling agent. “She helped me too well in mine evil purpose,” says her mistress; “for when I told her what I was minded to do, she consented to the doing of it, and ... when I sent her to seek the man who would do it, she said, I shall go and seek him, and if I get him not, I shall seek another; and if I get none, I shall do it myself.” This the nurse confessed. The other two women knew nothing of the deed before it was done; “and that which they knew,” says the mistress again, “they durst not tell for fear, for I had compelled them to dissemble.” Robert Weir, having given consent, was put in a cellar, where he stayed till midnight, about which time he came up and went to Kincaid’s chamber. Kincaid, who had waked with the “din,” and was leaning over the side of his bed, was knocked to the floor by a blow in the neck, kicked in the belly, and then throttled. “As soon as that man gripped him and began his evil turn,” says the wife, “so soon as my husband cried so fearfully, I leapt outover my bed and went to the hall, where I sat all the time till that unhappy man came to me and reported that mine husband was dead.” She desired Weir, she says, to take her away with him, for she feared trial, albeit flesh and blood made her think that her father’s interest at court would have saved her (this may have been an after-thought). But Weir refused, saying, You shall tarry still, and if this matter come not to light, you shall say he died in the gallery, and I shall return to my master’s service. But if it be known, I shall fly and take the crime on me, and none dare pursue you.

A benevolent minister, who visited Jean Livingston in prison about ten o’clock on Thursday, the third day after the murder, found her “raging in a senseless fury, disdainfully taunting every word of grace that was spoken to her, impatiently tearing her hair, sometimes running up and down the house like one possessed, sometimes throwing herself on the bed and sprawling, refusing all comfort by word, and, when the book of God was brought to her, flinging it upon the walls, twice or thrice, most unreverently.” His warnings of wrath to come and his exhortations to seek mercy through repentance were treated as “trittle, trattle,” and she stubbornly refused to pray for herself, or to take part in his prayer, or to say so much as God help me. He told her that she was promising herself impunity, but within a few hours, when she should have the sentence of death pronounced against her, the pride of her heart would be broken. The trial and sentence followed hard upon this, and when the minister returned, some time in the afternoon, he found a visible and apparent grace beginning in her. He remained with her till after midnight, and when he left her, Jean Livingston could say that she felt in her heart a free remission of all her sins. This worthy man came to the prison again early the next morning, and found God’s grace wonderfully augmented in her. She was full of joy and courage. Those that stood about her said they never saw her so amiable or well-favored. The glory of God was shining both without and within her.

To follow no further this astounding chapter in psychology, this bairn of twenty-one years,[10] with whom the Lord began to work in mercy upon Thursday at two hours in the afternoon, gave up her soul to him in peace upon the Saturday following at three hours in the morning. “When she came to the scaffold and was carried up upon it, she looked up to the Maiden with two longsome looks,” but her serenity was not disturbed. She made a confession at each of the four corners of the scaffold, took “good night” cheerfully of all her friends, kissing them, and then, “as a constant saint of God, humbled herself on her knees and offered her neck to the axe.”[11]

It may be gathered from Weir’s indictment that it was the ill treatment which she had received from her husband that incited the wife to the murder. Two of the ballads, #A# 4, #B# 2, make the same representation. An epitaph on Jean Livingston gives us to understand that both parties were very young, and were married aganst their will (invita invito subjuncta puella puello): whence perpetual disagreements (nihil in thalamo nisi rixæ, jurgia, lites).

In #A#, #B#, the strangling is done by the nurse and her lady, Man’s Enemy personally knotting the tether in #A#; in #C# it is done by the nurse alone. In #B# 8 the great Dunipace, in his anger at hearing what his daughter has done, cries out for her to be put in a barrel of pikes[12] and rolled down some lea. In #C# the father, mother, and brother come to see Jean, and would fain give everything to borrow her. This is a by much too flattering account of the behavior of her relatives, who were principally anxious to have her got out of the world with as little éclat as might be. None of them came near her in prison, though Wariston’s brother did. #C# makes Wariston’s mortal offence not the throwing a plate at her face (#A#) or striking her on the mouth (#B#), but the taxing her with a bairn by another man.[13] The unfriendly relations of the pair must have been notorious. In the prison the wife “purged herself very sincerely from many scandalous things she had been bruited with. Not that she would excuse herself that she was a sinner in the highest rank, but that she might clear herself from these false reports that her house was charged with:” Memorial, p. XXVII.

* * * * *

A

Jamieson’s Popular Ballads, I, 109, as taken down by Sir Walter
Scott from the recitation of his mother.

1
Down by yon garden green
Sae merrily as she gaes;
She has twa weel-made feet,
And she trips upon her taes.

2
She has twa weel-made feet,
Far better is her hand;
She’s as jimp in the middle
As ony willow-wand.

3
‘Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
It’s I will make you lady
Of a’ the lands you see.’

* * * * * *

4
He spak a word in jest;
Her answer wasna good;
He threw a plate at her face,
Made it a’ gush out o blood.

5
She wasna frae her chamber
A step but barely three,
When up and at her richt hand
There stood Man’s Enemy.

6
‘Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
I’ll learn you a wile
Avenged for to be.’

7
The Foul Thief knotted the tether,
She lifted his head on hie,
The nourice drew the knot
That gard lord Waristoun die.

8
Then word is gane to Leith,
Also to Edinburgh town,
That the lady had killd the laird,
The laird o Waristoun.

* * * * * *

9
‘Tak aff, tak aff my hood,
But lat my petticoat be;
Put my mantle oer my head,
For the fire I downa see.

10
‘Now, a’ ye gentle maids,
Tak warning now by me,
And never marry ane
But wha pleases your ee.

11
‘For he married me for love,
But I married him for fee;
And sae brak out the feud
That gard my dearie die.’

* * * * *

B

Kinloch MSS, VII, 217; from the recitation of Jenny Watson.

1
It was at dinner as they sat,
And whan they drank the wine,
How happy war the laird and lady
Of bonnie Wariston!

2
The lady spak but ae word,
The matter to conclude;
The laird strak her on the mouth,
Till she spat out o blude.

3
She did not know the way
Her mind to satisfy,
Till evil cam into [her] head
All by the Enemy.

* * * * * *

4
‘At evening when ye sit,
And whan ye drink the wine,
See that ye fill the glass weill up
To the laird o Wariston.’

5
So at table whan they sat,
And whan they drank the wine,
She made the glass aft gae round
To the laird o Wariston.

6
The nurice she knet the knot,
And O she knet it sicker!
The lady did gie it a twig,
Till it began to wicker.

7
But word’s gane doun to Leith,
And up to Embro toun,
That the lady she has slain the laird,
The laird o Waristoun.

8
Word has gane to her father, the grit Dunipace,
And an angry man was he;
Cries, Gar mak a barrel o pikes,
And row her down some lea!

9
She said, Wae be to ye, Wariston,
I wish ye may sink for sin!
For I have been your wife
These nine years, running ten;
And I never loved ye sae well
As now whan ye’re lying slain.

10
‘But tak aff this gowd brocade,
And let my petticoat stay,
And tie a handkerchief round my face,
That the people may not see.’

* * * * *

C

Buchan’s Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 56.

1
‘My mother was an ill woman,
In fifteen years she married me;
I hadna wit to guide a man,
Alas! ill counsel guided me.

2
‘O Warriston, O Warriston,
I wish that ye may sink for sin!
I was but bare fifteen years auld,
Whan first I enterd your yates within.

3
‘I hadna been a month married,
Till my gude lord went to the sea;
I bare a bairn ere he came hame,
And set it on the nourice knee.

4
‘But it fell ance upon a day,
That my gude lord returnd from sea;
Then I did dress in the best array,
As blythe as ony bird on tree.

5
‘I took my young son in my arms,
Likewise my nourice me forebye,
And I went down to yon shore-side,
My gude lord’s vessel I might spy.

6
‘My lord he stood upon the deck,
I wyte he haild me courteouslie:
Ye are thrice welcome, my lady gay,
Whae’s aught that bairn on your knee?’

7
She turnd her right and round about,
Says, ‘Why take ye sic dreads o me?
Alas! I was too young married,
To love another man but thee.’

8
‘Now hold your tongue, my lady gay,
Nae mair falsehoods ye’ll tell to me;
This bonny bairn is not mine,
You’ve loved another while I was on sea.’

9
In discontent then hame she went,
And aye the tear did blin her ee;
Says, Of this wretch I’ll be revenged
For these harsh words he’s said to me.

10
She’s counselld wi her father’s steward
What way she coud revenged be;
Bad was the counsel then he gave,
It was to gar her gude lord dee.

11
The nourice took the deed in hand,
I wat she was well paid her fee;
She kiest the knot, and the loop she ran,
Which soon did gar this young lord dee.

12
His brother lay in a room hard by,
Alas! that night he slept too soun;
But then he wakend wi a cry,
‘I fear my brother’s putten down.

13
‘O get me coal and candle light,
And get me some gude companie;’
But before the light was brought,
Warriston he was gart dee.

14
They’ve taen the lady and fause nourice,
In prison strong they hae them boun;
The nourice she was hard o heart,
But the bonny lady fell in swoon.

15
In it came her brother dear,
And aye a sorry man was he:
‘I woud gie a’ the lands I heir,
O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.’

16
‘O borrow me, brother, borrow me?
O borrowd shall I never be;
For I gart kill my ain gude lord,
And life is nae pleasure to me.’

17
In it came her mother dear,
I wyte a sorry woman was she:
‘I woud gie my white monie and gowd,
O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.’

18
‘Borrow me, mother, borrow me?
O borrowd shall I never be;
For I gart kill my ain gude lord,
And life’s now nae pleasure to me,’

19
Then in it came her father dear,
I wyte a sorry man was he;
Says, ‘Ohon, alas! my bonny Jean,
If I had you at hame wi me!

20
‘Seven daughters I hae left at hame,
As fair women as fair can be;
But I would gie them ane by ane,
O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.’

21
‘O borrow me, father, borrow me?
O borrowd shall I never be;
I that is worthy o the death,
It is but right that I shoud dee.’

22
Then out it speaks the king himsell,
And aye as he steps in the fleer;
Says, ‘I grant you your life, lady,
Because you are of tender year.’

23
‘A boon, a boon, my liege the king,
The boon I ask, ye’ll grant to me;’
‘Ask on, ask on, my bonny Jean,
Whateer ye ask it’s granted be.’

24
‘Cause take me out at night, at night,
Lat not the sun upon me shine,
And take me to yon heading-hill,
Strike aff this dowie head o mine.

25
‘Ye’ll take me out at night, at night,
When there are nane to gaze and see,
And hae me to yon heading-hill,
And ye’ll gar head me speedilie.’

26
They’ve taen her out at nine at night,
Loot not the sun upon her shine,
And had her to yon heading-hill,
And headed her baith neat and fine.

27
Then out it speaks the king himsell,
I wyte a sorry man was he:
‘I’ve travelld east, I’ve travelld west,
And sailed far beyond the sea,
But I never saw a woman’s face
I was sae sorry to see dee.

28
‘But Warriston was sair to blame,
For slighting o his lady so;
He had the wyte o his ain death,
And bonny lady’s overthrow.’

* * * * *

#B.#

4. _The MS indicates that this is the nurse’s speech._

5^1. whan _struck out_, as _written over_.

8. has _struck out_, ‘s _substituted_.

10^2. stay _struck out_, be _substituted_.

10^3. _Originally_ handkerchief; hand _struck out_.

_Kinloch has made several changes in printing_:

7^1. has gane.

8^3. Fy! gar.

8^4. some brae.

9^3. gud wife. _He gives_ as _in 5^1;_ be _in 10^2;_ handkerchief
_in 10^3._

#C.#

6^4. Whase. _Perhaps_, Wha’s _rather than_ Whae’s.

195

LORD MAXWELL’S LAST GOODNIGHT

#A.# ‘Lord Maxwell’s Last Goodnight,’ communicated to Percy by G.
Paton, 1778.

#B.# ‘Lord Maxwell’s Goodnight,’ Glenriddell MSS, XI, 18, 1791,
Scott’s Minstrelsy, I, 194, 1802; II, 133, 1833.

First published in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, “from a copy in Glenriddell’s MS., with some slight variations from tradition.” I understand this to mean, not that the variations were derived from tradition, but that the text of the Minstrelsy departs somewhat from that of the manuscript.

#A# and #B# agree entirely as to matter. The order of the stanzas, not being governed by an explicit story, might be expected to vary with every reciter.

In the year 1585, John, Lord Maxwell, having incurred the enmity of the king’s favorite, the Earl of Arran, was denounced rebel, on such charges as were always at hand, and a commission was given to the Laird of Johnstone to pursue and take him. A hired force, by the aid of which this was expected to be done, was badly routed by the Maxwells in a sharp fight. Johnstone made a raid on Maxwell’s lands; Maxwell burnt Johnstone’s house. Finally, in one of their skirmishes, Johnstone was captured: “the grief of this overthrow gave Johnstone, shortly after he was liberated, his death.”

After some years of feud, the two chiefs, “by the industry of certain wise gentlemen of the Johnstones,” surprised all Scotland by making a treaty of peace. On April 1, 1592, they entered into a bond to forget and forgive all rancor and malice of the past, and to live in amity, themselves and their friends, in all time coming. A little more than a year after, a party of Johnstones, relying, no doubt, on the forbearance of their new ally, then warden of the West Marches, “rode a stealing” in the lands of Lord Sanquhar and of the knights of Drumlanrig, Lag, and Closeburn, carried off a large booty, and killed eighteen men who endeavored to retrieve their property. (See No 184, ‘The Lads of Wamphray.’) The injured gentlemen made complaint to Maxwell as warden, and also procured a commission directing him to proceed against the Johnstones. Maxwell was in an awkward plight. To induce him to take action, several of the sufferers engaged to enter into a bond of manrent, or homage, to Maxwell, by which they should be obliged to service and he to protection. “Maxwell, thinking this to be a good occasion for bringing all Nithsdale to depend upon him, embraced the offer.” But this bond, through negligence, came to the hands of Johnstone, who, seeing what turn matters would take, made a league with Scotts, Eliots, and others, and in a battle at Dryfe Sands, by superior strategy, defeated Maxwell, though the warden had much larger numbers. This was in December, 1593. “The Lord Maxwell, a tall man and heavy in armor, was in the chase overtaken and stricken from his horse. The report went that he called to Johnstone and desired to be taken as he had sometime taken his father, but was unmercifully used, and the hand that he reached forth cut off. But of this,” says Spotiswood, “I can affirm nothing. There always the Lord Maxwell fell, having received many wounds.” Drumlanrig, Closeburn, and other of the Nithsdale lairds of Maxwell’s faction, barely escaped with their lives.

Sir James Johnstone soon made his peace with the king, whose warden had been slain while acting under royal authority. The heir of the slain warden, John, the ninth Lord Maxwell, is said to have been only eight years old at the time of his father’s death.[14] If this was so, he became very early of age for all purposes of offence. The two clans kept up a bloody and destructive private war. Both chiefs were imprisoned and proclaimed rebel or traitor; Maxwell twice, first in 1601, as favoring popery, and again in 1607, for his extravagant turbulence; and in each case he made his own escape, the second time by the use of violence. At length, influenced perhaps by a conviction that his defiance of the law had gone too far for his safety, Maxwell seemed to be seriously disposed to reconcile himself with his inveterate enemy.[15] Sir James Johnstone, as it happened, had already asked Sir Robert Maxwell, who was his brother-in-law and cousin to Lord Maxwell, to speak to his kinsman with that view. Sir Robert had no wish to meddle, for his cousin, he said, was a dangerous man to have to do with. Lord John, however, spontaneously sent for Sir Robert, and said to him, You see my estate and the danger I stand in. I would crave your counsel as a man that tenders my weal. The result of much conference and writing (in which Sir Robert Maxwell, evidently feeling imperfect confidence in his cousin, acted with great caution) was that Lord Maxwell proposed a tryst with Sir James Johnstone, each of them to be accompanied by one person only, and no others to be present except Sir Robert, and faithfully promised, with his hands between Sir Robert’s hands, that neither he nor the man he should bring with him should do any wrong, “whether they agreed or not.” Johnstone accepted the terms and made corresponding promises. The meeting came off the 6th of April, 1608. Johnstone brought Willie Johnstone with him, and Maxwell Charlie Maxwell, a man that Sir Robert strongly disapproved, but his chief undertook to be answerable for him. Sir Robert required the same guaranty on the part of Johnstone for his follower, and these men were ordered to keep away from one another. The two principals and their mediator between them rode off, with their backs to their men, and began their parley. Looking round, Sir Robert saw that Charlie Maxwell had left his appointed place and gone to Willie Johnstone, at whom, after some words between them, he fired a pistol. Sir Robert cried to Lord Maxwell, Fie, make not yourself a traitor and me both! Lord Maxwell replied, I am blameless. Sir James Johnstone slipped away to see to his follower’s safety. Lord Maxwell followed Sir James, shot him in the back, and rode off.[16]

Lord Maxwell fled the country, but was tried in his absence and sentenced to death, with forfeiture of his estates. He came back to Scotland after four years, was basely betrayed into the power of the government by a kinsman, and was beheaded at Edinburgh May 21, 1613.[17]

“Thus was finally ended,” remarks Sir Walter Scott, “by a salutary example of severity, the ‘foul debate’ betwixt the Maxwells and Johnstones, in the course of which each family lost two chieftains: one dying of a broken heart, one in the field of battle, one by assassination, and one by the sword of the executioner.”

#A# 1, 2, and _passim_. The very affectionate relations of Lord Maxwell and his ‘lady and only joy,’ are a fiction of the ballad-maker. His wife was daughter of the first Marquis of Hamilton. Maxwell instituted a process of divorce against her, and she died while this was pending, before he fled the country in 1608. By his treatment of his wife he made her brother, the second marquis, and the Hamiltons generally, his enemies.[18]

5, 6. Carlaverock castle had from far back belonged to the Maxwells, and is theirs still. They had a house, or castle, at Dumfries, and the custody of the “houses” of Lochmaben, Langholm, and Thrieve.

9, 10. Douglas of Drumlanrig, Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, and Grierson of Lag fled in the _sauve qui peut_ of Dryfe Sands, and the partisans of Lord Maxwell, who there lost his life, would naturally describe them as deserting their chief. They (or two of them) had entered into a “band” with Maxwell, as aforesaid. The ballad-maker seems to intimate that they were in a band with each other, or with somebody, to betray Maxwell.

11, and #B# 1. ‘Robin in the Orchet,’ ‘Robert of Oarchyardtoan,’ is properly Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardton, Lord John’s cousin, but it is evident, from the conjunction of mother and sisters, that the person here intended is his brother Robert, to whom, some years after the execution and forfeiture of Lord John, the estates were restored.

14. Maxwell’s wife, as said above, was no longer living. The “offers” which he made, to save his life, contain a proposal that he should marry the slain Sir James Johnstone’s daughter, without any dowry.

“Goodnight” is to be taken loosely as a farewell. Other cases are ‘John Armstrong’s last Goodnight,’ and the well-known beautiful fragment (?) of two stanzas called ‘Armstrong’s Goodnight;’ again, Essex’s last Goodnight, to the tune of The King’s last Goodnight, Chappell, Roxburghe Ballads, I, 570, and Popular Music, p. 174. The Earl of Derby sings a Goodnight (though the name is not used) in ‘Flodden Field,’ No 168, III, 356, stanzas 36–58. Justice Shallow sang those tunes that he heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his Fancies, or his Good-nights: Second Part of Henry IV, III, 2. Lord Byron, in the preface to Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, says “the good-night in the beginning of the first canto was suggested by Lord Maxwell’s Goodnight in the Border Minstrelsy.”

* * * * *

A

Communicated to Percy by G. Paton, Edinburgh, December 4, 1778.

1
‘Good lord of the land, will you stay thane
About my faither’s house,
And walk into these gardines green,
In my arms I’ll the embraice.

2
‘Ten thousand times I’ll kiss thy face;
Make sport, and let’s be mery:’
‘I thank you, lady, fore your kindness;
Trust me, I may not stay with the.

3 ‘For I have kil’d the laird Johnston;
I vallow not the feed;
My wiked heart did still incline;
He was my faither’s dead.

4
‘Both night and day I did proced,
And a’ on him revainged to be;
But now have I gotten what I long sowght,
Trust me, I may not stay with the.

5
‘Adue, Dumfriese, that proper place!
Fair well, Carlaurike faire!
Adue the castle of the Trive,
And all my biddings there!

6
‘Adue, Lochmaben gaits so faire,
And the Langhm shank, where birks bobs bony!
Adue, my leady and only joy!
Trust me, I may not stay with the.

7
‘Adue, fair Eskdale, up and doun,
Wher my poor frends do duell!
The bangisters will beat them doun,
And will them sore compell.

8
‘I’ll reveinge the cause mysell,
Again when I come over the sea;
Adue, my leady and only joy!
Fore, trust me, I may not stay with the.

9
‘Adue, Dumlanark! fals was ay,
And Closburn! in a band;
The laird of the Lag from my faither fled
When the Jhohnstones struek of his hand.

10
‘They wer three brethren in a band;
I pray they may never be merry;
Adue, my leady and only joy!
Trust me, I may not stay with the.

11
‘Adue, madam my mother dear,
But and my sister[s] two!
Fair well, Robin in the Orchet!
Fore the my heart is wo.

12
‘Adue, the lillie, and fair well, rose,
And the primros, spreads fair and bony!
Adue, my leady and only joy!
Fore, trust me, I may not stay with the.’

13
He took out a good gold ring,
Where at hang sygnets three:
‘Take thou that, my own kind thing,
And ay have mind of me.

14
‘Do not mary another lord
Agan or I come over the sea;
Adue, my leady and only joy!
For, trust me, I may not stay with the.’

15
The wind was fair, and the ship was clare,
And the good lord went away;
The most part of his frends was there,
Giving him a fair convoy.

16
They drank the wine, they did not spare,
Presentting in that good lord’s sight;
Now he is over the floods so gray;
Lord Maxwell has te’n his last good-night.

* * * * *

B

Glenriddell MSS, XI, 18. 1791.

1
‘Adiew, madam my mother dear,
But and my sisters two!
Adiew, fair Robert of Oarchyardtoan!
For thee my heart is woe.

2
‘Adiew, the lilly and the rose,
The primrose, sweet to see!
Adiew, my lady and only joy!
For I manna stay with thee.

3
‘Tho I have killed the laird Johnston,
What care I for his feed?
My noble mind dis still incline;
He was my father’s dead.

4
‘Both night and day I laboured oft
Of him revenged to be,
And now I’ve got what I long sought;
But I manna stay with thee.

5
‘Adiew, Drumlanrig! false was ay,
And Cloesburn! in a band,
Where the laird of Lagg fra my father fled
When the Johnston struck off his hand.

6
‘They were three brethren in a band;
Joy may they never see!
But now I’ve got what I long sought,
And I maunna stay with thee.

7
‘Adiew, Dumfries, my proper place,
But and Carlaverock fair,
Adiew, the castle of the Thrieve,
And all my buildings there!

8
‘Adiew, Lochmaben’s gates so fair,
The Langholm shank, where birks they be!
Adiew, my lady and only joy!
And, trust me, I maunna stay with thee.

9
‘Adiew, fair Eskdale, up and down,
Where my poor friends do dwell!
The bangisters will ding them down,
And will them sore compel.

10
‘But I’ll revenge that feed mysell
When I come ou’r the sea;
Adiew, my lady and only joy!
For I maunna stay with thee.’

11
‘Lord of the land, will you go then
Unto my father’s place,
And walk into their gardens green,
And I will you embrace.

12
‘Ten thousand times I’ll kiss your face,
And sport, and make you merry;’
‘I thank thee, my lady, for thy kindness,
But, trust me, I maunna stay with thee.’

13
Then he took off a great gold ring,
Where at hang signets three:
‘Hae, take thee that, my ain dear thing,
And still hae mind of me.

14
‘But if thow marry another lord
Ere I come ou’r the sea—
Adiew, my lady and only joy!
For I maunna stay with thee.’

15
The wind was fair, the ship was close,
That good lord went away,
And most part of his friends were there,
To give him a fair convay.

16
They drank thair wine, they did not spare,
Even in the good lord’s sight;
Now he is oer the floods so gray,
And Lord Maxwell has taen his good-night.

* * * * *

#A.#

1^2. faither’s place? _So_ #B#.

4^2. And a’ to be revainged on him. _Cf._ #B#.

5^2. Fair well the Lanríke faires. (?)

9^4. struet. (?)

13^{1,2}.
He took out a good gold ring [where it hang, _partly erased_.]
Where it hang signets three.

#B.#

_Written in stanzas of eight lines._

4^1. labourod.

_The variations of the Minstrelsy, being editorial, do not require
to be recorded, but some of them have a certain interest._

1^2. sisters three.

1^4. My heart is wae for thee.

3^3. mind their wrath disdains.

6^{3,4}.
Their treacherous art and cowardly heart
Has twin’d my love and me.

11
Lord of the land, that ladye said,
O wad ye go wi me
Unto my brother’s stately tower,
Where safest ye may be!

12^{1,2}.
There Hamiltons and Douglas baith
Shall rise to succour thee.

14^3. His life is but a three days’ lease.

15^1. was clear, _as in_ #A#.

196

THE FIRE OF FRENDRAUGHT

#A. a.# ‘The Fire of Frendraught,’ Motherwell’s Minstrelsy, p. 161,
1827. #b.# ‘Burning of Frendraught,’ Maidment’s North Countrie
Garland, p. 4, 1824.

#B.# ‘The Burning of Frendraught,’ Kinloch MSS, V, 399.

#C.# ‘The Fire of Frendraught,’ from a note-book of Dr Joseph
Robertson’s.

#D.# Ritson’s Scotish Songs, II, 35, 1794.

#E.# Kinloch MSS, VI, 27, one stanza.

#A a# was communicated to Motherwell by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe. (Corrections have here been adopted from Motherwell’s Errata: see also the Musical Museum, 1853, IV, 322*.) #A b#, says Motherwell, has the “disadvantage of containing a very considerable number of slight verbal and literal inaccuracies.” The implication is, or should be, that these variations are of editorial origin. Some of the readings of #b# are in themselves better than those of #a#. #b# is repeated in Buchan’s Gleanings, p. 165. The copy in Maidment’s Scotish Ballads, 1868, I, 267, is a with a reading or two from #b#, arbitrary alterations, and some misprints.

Dr Joseph Robertson has, in one of his notebooks, “Adversaria,” p. 63, the two following stanzas, given him by a gentleman of Buchan as belonging to “The Burning of Frendraught House.”

‘Will ye play at the cards, Lord John?
Will ye drink at the wine?
Or will ye [gang] to a weel made bed,
And sleep till it be time?’

‘I’ll no play at the cards, ladie,
I’ll no drink at the wine;
But I’ll gang to a weel made bed,
An sleep till it be time.’

Undoubtedly these stanzas may have occurred in a version of this ballad, but they are a commonplace, and sometimes an intrusive one. See II, 109, ‘Fair Janet,’ #F# 4, 5; 154, ‘Young Hunting,’ #K# 8, 9; 164, ‘Clerk Saunders,’ #F#, 5, 6; 409, ‘Willie o Douglas Dale,’ #B# 20.

The modern, and extremely vapid, ballad of ‘Frennet Hall’ appeared originally (I suppose) in Herd’s Scottish Songs, 1776, I, 142, and was afterwards received into Ritson’s Scotish Songs, II, 31, The Musical Museum, No 286, etc.

James Crichton of Frendraught and William Gordon of Rothiemay (a neighboring estate[19]) had a fierce quarrel about fishing-rights pertaining to lands which Gordon had sold to Crichton. A legal decision was rendered in favor of Frendraught, who, however, pursued his adversary with excessive vigor and procured him to be outlawed. After this, Rothiemay would hear to no terms of peace, and collected a party of loose fellows with the intent to waste Frendraught’s lands. Frendraught obtained a commission to arrest Rothiemay, and on the first day of the year 1630 set out to put this in force, accompanied, among others, by his uncle (George Gordon) James Leslie, son of the laird of Pitcaple, and John Meldrum, who was married to young Leslie’s aunt. Rothiemay, hearing of Frendraught’s coming, rode out to meet him, and there was a fight, in which Rothiemay and George Gordon were mortally wounded, and Meldrum badly. The feud waxed hot, and Frendraught’s lands were in danger of being burned and ravaged by Highlanders, with whom John Gordon of Rothiemay, son to the slain laird, had combined for the purpose. But in the end, by the strenuous exertions of the Marquis of Huntly and others, a settlement was effected. The laird of Rothiemay and the children of George Gordon were “to remit their father’s slaughter mutually,” and in satisfaction thereof the laird of Frendraught was to pay a certain sum of money to young Rothiemay and to George Gordon’s children: “which both, Frendraught obeyed and performed willingly, and so, all parties having shaken hands, they were heartily reconciled.”

This broil was no sooner settled than another sprouted, a side-shoot from the same stem. Meldrum, who had been with Frendraught in the affray with Rothiemay, and had been wounded, was dissatisfied with such requital as he received, and, getting nothing more by his bickering and threats, helped himself one night to two of Frendraught’s best horses. Summoned to court for the theft, he “turned rebel” and did not appear. Frendraught obtained a commission to arrest him, and went to look for him at Pitcaple, a place belonging to John Leslie, Meldrum’s brother-in-law. He did not find Meldrum, but fell in with James Leslie, Pitcaple’s son, who had also been of Frendraught’s party at the encounter on New Year’s day. There was talk about Meldrum’s behavior, in which Frendraught comported himself forbearingly; but James Leslie and Robert Crichton, a kinsman of Frendraught, had hot words, which ended in Leslie’s getting a dangerous shot in the arm. Hereupon the larger part of the surname of Leslie rose in arms against the Crichtons. Frendraught, grieved for what had happened to James Leslie, betook himself to the Marquis of Huntly, and entreated him to make peace. The marquis sent for the Leslies, and did his best to reconcile them, but Pitcaple would listen to nothing until he knew whether his son James was to live or die. Huntly, fearing for Frendraught’s safety, kept him two days at the Bog of Gight, and then, hearing that the Leslies were lying in wait, sent his own son, Viscount Melgum, and the young laird of Rothiemay, to protect him on the way home. Arrived there, the laird and his lady begged these young gentlemen to remain overnight, “and did their best, with all demonstration of love and kindness, to entertain them, thinking themselves happy now to have purchased such friends who had formerly been their foes.” At about two in the morning the tower of Frendraught house, in which these guests lay, took fire, and they with four of their servants were burnt to death. This occurred on the eighth (ninth) of October.

So far Sir Robert Gordon, uncle of the lady of Frendraught and cousin of the Marquis of Huntly, who was perfectly acquainted with all the parties and circumstances. He goes on to say, with entire fairness: “The rumor of this unhappy accident did speedily spread itself throughout the whole kingdom, every man bewailing it, and constructing it diversly as their affections led them; some laying an aspersion upon Frendraught, as if he had wilfully destroyed his guests, who had come thither to defend him against his enemies; which carried no appearance of truth; for, besides the improbability of the matter, he did lose therein a great quantity of silver, both coined and uncoined, and likewise all his writs and evidents were therein burnt.”[20]

The monstrous wickedness of this act would not, in the light of the history of those times, afford an argument that would of itself avail to clear Frendraught; but what words could describe his recklessness and folly! Supposing him willing to set fire to his own house, and sacrifice his silver and securities, for the gratification of burning young Rothiemay with the rest, he knew very well what consequences he had to expect. He had been glad to compound his feud with the Rothiemays by the payment of money (some say the considerable sum of 50,000 merks). He had been alarmed, and with good reason, at the prospect of a feud with the Leslies. But what were these to a feud with the Marquis of Huntly, which would bring down upon him, and did bring down upon him, not only the reprisals of the Gordons, but spoliation from all the brigands of the country?[21]

‘Lewed people demen gladly to the badder ende,’

says Chaucer, and so it was with ballad-makers, and sometimes even with clerks; John Spalding, for instance, the other contemporary authority upon this subject, who gives a lively and detailed account of the burning of the tower, as follows.[22]

“The viscount was laid in a bed in the Old Tower, going off the hall, and standing upon a vault, wherein there was a round hole, devised of old, just under Aboyne’s[23] bed. Robert Gordon, born in Sutherland, his servitor, and English Will, his page, was both laid beside him in the same chamber. The laird of Rothiemay, with some servants beside him, was laid in an upper chamber just above Aboyne’s chamber; and in another room above that chamber was laid George Chalmer of Noth, and George Gordon, another of the viscount’s servants; with whom also was laid Captain Rollok, then in Frendraught’s own company. Thus all being at rest, about midnight that dolorous tower took fire in so sudden and furious manner, yea, and in a clap, that this noble viscount, the laird of Rothiemay, English Will, Colin Ivat, another of Aboyne’s servitors, and other two, being six in number, were cruelly burnt and tormented to the death, but help or relief; the laird of Frendraught, his lady and whole household looking on, without moving or stirring to deliver them from the fury of this fearful fire, as was reported. Robert Gordon, called Sutherland Robert, being in the viscount’s chamber, escaped this fire with his life. George Chalmer and Captain Rollok, being in the third room, escaped also this fire, and, as was said, Aboyne might have saved himself also if he had gone out of doors, which he would not do, but suddenly ran up stairs to Rothiemay’s chamber, and wakened him to rise, and as he is wakening him, the timber passage and lofting of the chamber hastily takes fire, so that none of them could win down stairs again; so they turned to a window looking to the close, where they piteously cried help, help, many times, for God’s cause! the laird and the lady, with their servants, all seeing and hearing this woeful crying, but made no help nor manner of helping;[24] which they perceiving, they cried oftentimes mercy at God’s hands for their sins, syne clasped in other arms, and cheerfully suffered this cruel martyrdom. Thus died this noble viscount, of singular expectation, Rothiemay, a brave youth, and the rest, by this doleful fire never enough to be deplored, to the great grief and sorrow of their kin, friends, parents, and whole country people, especially to the noble marquis, who for his goodwill got this reward.”

Spalding tells us that it was reported that, the morning after the fire, Lady Frendraught, riding on a small nag, and with no attendants but a boy to lead her horse, came weeping to the Bog, desiring to speak with the marquis, but was refused. The Huntly-Gordons, the Earl of Errol (brother of Viscountess Melgum), and many other friends held a council, and after serious consideration came to the conclusion that the fire “could not come by chance, sloth, or accident, but was plotted and devised of set purpose;” Frendraught, his lady, his friends and servants, one or other, knowing thereof. The marquis, however, was resolved not to revenge himself “by way of deed,” but to invoke the laws. Frendraught, as far as we can see, desired a legal inquiry no less than Huntly. He addressed himself to the Lord Chancellor and to the Privy Council, and offered to undergo any form of trial, and, delays occurring, he repeated to the Council his wish to have “that hidden mystery brought to a clear light.” Examinations and prosecutions, extended to the middle of the year 1634, failed to fix the guilt of the fire on him or anybody, although John Meldrum, on the strength of some threats which he had uttered, was wrongfully convicted of the act and was executed.[25]

#A.# The date is the eighteenth of October, new style for the eighth. When Gordon and Rothiemay (having convoyed Frendraught safely home) are on the point of returning, Lady Frendraught urges them to stay, in token of good feeling between Huntly and her husband. Lord John is quite disposed to comply, but Rothiemay says that his horse has been tampered with since their coming, and he fears that he is fey. After the regular evening-mass of ballads (which would have suited Lady Frendraught, a concealed Catholic, but not her husband), Lord John and Rothiemay are laid in one chamber, an arrangement which would have allowed both to escape, as Robert Gordon did, who slept in his master’s room. Lord John wakes with the smoke and heat, and rouses Rothiemay. The doors and windows are fastened. Rothiemay goes to the ‘wire-window,’ and finds the stanchions too strong to be dealt with. He sees Lady Frendraught below, and cries to her for mercy; her husband killed the father, and now she is burning the son. Lady Frendraught is sorry that she must burn Lord John in order to burn Rothiemay, but there is no help; the keys are cast in the deep draw-well.[26] [Robert] Gordon, who has escaped though the keys were in the well, calls to his master to jump from the window; he will catch him in his arms. His master answers that no fire shall part him and Rothiemay, and besides, the window is fast. He throws his finger-rings down, to be given to his lady. When the servant goes home to his mistress, she reproaches him for coming back alive and leaving his master dead. She tears off the clothes which her maid puts on her, exclaiming that she won a sore heart the day she was married, and that that day has returned (which is not easy to understand: see Appendix).

#B.# This fragment represents Lady Frendraught as being very importunate with Lord John: she presses him three times over to stay, and promises him a morning-gift of lands if he will comply; by a perversion of tradition, Strathbogie, which had been in his family three hundred years, and which, further on, he offers to give her if she will let him out. Finding that he cannot escape (perhaps stanza 7 should come later), Lord John takes out his psalm-book and sings three verses, with ‘God end our misery’ at each verse’s end. In 9 he sees his elder brother, Lord George, from the window, and asks what news he has, but a defect conceals from us the point of this passage. Stanza 16 seems to belong to Lord John’s wife.

#C.# When the gentlemen are in their saddles, ready to ride away, Lady Frendraught, on her bare knees, begs them to remain, and promises them a firlot of red gold if they will. When everybody has gone to bed, the doors are locked and the windows shut. The reek begins to rise and the joists to crack; Lord John betakes himself to the window, and finds the stanchions too strong to break. He goes back and wakens Rothiemay, and proposes to him to praise the Lord in the fifty-third psalm,[27] for there is treason about them. He calls to Lady Frendraught, walking on the green, for mercy; she replies that the keys are in the well, and the doors were locked yesterday. He reproaches her for burning her own flesh. George Chalmers (who really escaped, though lodged in the third story) is described as leaping the ditches and coming, from without, to Rothiemay’s help, and Colin Irving (the Colin Ivat of Spalding, who was burnt) as doing the same in behalf of Lord John, to whom he calls to jump into his arms. Lord John is burning, and there is little more left of him than his spirit; but he throws down a purse of gold for the poor and his rings for his wife. Lady Rothiemay comes in the morning to cry vengeance on Frendraught, who has betrayed the gay Gordons, killed her lord, and burnt her son.[28]

#D.# “‘There are some intermediate particulars,’ Mr Boyd says, ‘respecting the lady’s lodging her victims in a turret or flanker which did not communicate with the castle.’ ‘This,’ adds he, ‘I only have from tradition, as I never heard any other stanzas besides the foregoing.’ The author of the original, we may perceive, either through ignorance or design, had deviated from the fact in supposing Lady Frennet’s husband to have been slain by Lord John’s father.” Ritson, p. 36.@

It may be noted that three of the most tragical of the Scottish historical ballads are associated with the name of Gordon: the Burning of Towie, as we might call ‘Captain Car,’ No 178, through Adam Gordon, uncle of the first marquis of Huntly; the Burning of Donibristle, known as ‘The Bonny Earl of Murray,’ No 181, of which the responsibility is put upon the marquis (then earl) himself; and the Burning of Frendraught, in which his son perished.

* * * * *

A

#a.# Motherwell’s Minstrelsy, p. 161, from a MS. of Charles
Kirkpatrick Sharpe. #b.# Maidment’s North Countrie Garland, p. 4;
“long preserved by tradition in Aberdeenshire, and procured from an
intelligent individual resident in that part of Scotland.”

1
The eighteenth of October,
A dismal tale to hear
How good Lord John and Rothiemay
Was both burnt in the fire.

2
When steeds was saddled and well bridled,
And ready for to ride,
Then out it came her false Frendraught,
Inviting them to bide.

3
Said, ‘Stay this night untill we sup,
The morn untill we dine;
‘Twill be a token of good greement
’Twixt your good lord and mine.’

4
‘We’ll turn again,’ said good Lord John;
‘But no,’ said Rothiemay,
‘My steed’s trapand, my bridle’s broken,
I fear the day I’m fey.’

5
When mass was sung, and bells was rung,
And all men bound for bed,
Then good Lord John and Rothiemay
In one chamber was laid.

6
They had not long cast off their cloaths,
And were but now asleep.
When the weary smoke began to rise,
Likewise the scorching heat.

7
‘O waken, waken, Rothiemay!
O waken, brother dear!
And turn you to our Saviour;
There is strong treason here.’

8
When they were dressed in their cloaths,
And ready for to boun,
The doors and windows was all secur’d,
The roof-tree burning down.

9
He did him to the wire-window,
As fast as we could gang;
Says, Wae to the hands put in the stancheons!
For out we’ll never win.

10
When he stood at the wire-window,
Most doleful to be seen,
He did espy her Lady Frendraught,
Who stood upon the green.

11
Cried, Mercy, mercy, Lady Frendraught!
Will ye not sink with sin?
For first your husband killed my father,
And now you burn his son.

12
O then out spoke her Lady Frendraught,
And loudly did she cry;
‘It were great pity for good Lord John,
But none for Rothiemay;
But the keys are casten in the deep draw-well,
Ye cannot get away.’

13
While he stood in this dreadful plight,
Most piteous to be seen,
There called out his servant Gordon,
As he had frantic been:

14
‘O loup, O loup, my dear master!
O loup and come to me!
I’ll catch you in my arms two,
One foot I will not flee.

15
‘O loup, O loup, my dear master!
O loup and come away!
I’ll catch you in my arms two,
But Rothiemay may lie.’

16
‘The fish shall never swim in the flood,
Nor corn grow through the clay,
Nor the fiercest fire that ever was kindled
Twin me and Rothiemay.

17
‘But I cannot loup, I cannot come,
I cannot win to thee;
My head’s fast in the wire-window,
My feet burning from me.

18
‘My eyes are seething in my head,
My flesh roasting also,
My bowels are boiling with my blood;
Is not that a woeful woe?

19
‘Take here the rings from my white fingers,
That are so long and small,
And give them to my lady fair,
Where she sits in her hall.

20
‘So I cannot loup, I cannot come,
I cannot loup to thee;
My earthly part is all consumed,
My spirit but speaks to thee.’

21
Wringing her hands, tearing her hair,
His lady she was seen,
And thus addressed his servant Gordon,
Where he stood on the green.

22
‘O wae be to you, George Gordon!
An ill death may you die!
So safe and sound as you stand there,
And my lord bereaved from me.’

23
‘I bad him loup, I bad him come,
I bad him loup to me;
I’d catch him in my arms two,
A foot I should not flee. &c.

24
‘He threw me the rings from his white fingers,
Which were so long and small,
To give to you, his lady fair,
Where you sat in your hall.’ &c.

25
Sophia Hay, Sophia Hay,
O bonny Sophia was her name,
Her waiting maid put on her cloaths,
But I wot she tore them off again.

26
And aft she cried, Ohon! alas! alas!
A sair heart’s ill to win;
I wan a sair heart when I married him,
And the day it’s well returnd again.

* * * * *

B

Kinloch MSS, V, 399, in the handwriting of John Hill Burton.

* * * * * *

1
‘Ye’ll stay this night wi me, Lord John,
Ye’ll stay this night wi me,
For there is appearence of good greement
Betwixt Frendraught and thee.’

2
‘How can I bide, or how shall I bide,
Or how can I bide wi thee,
Sin my lady is in the lands of Air,
And I long till I her see?’

3
‘Oh stay this night wi me, Lord John,
Oh stay this night wi me,
And bonny[’s] be the morning-gift
That I will to you gie.

4
‘I’ll gie you a Strathboggie lands,
And the laigh lands o Strathray,
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .

5
‘Ye’ll stay this night wi me, Lord John,
Ye’ll stay this night wi me,
And I’ll lay you in a bed of down,
And Rothiemay you wi.’

6
When mass was sung, and bells were rung,
And a’ men bun to bed,
Gude Lord John and Rothiemay
In one chamber were laid.

* * * * * *

7
Out hes he taen his little psalm-buik,
And verses sang he three,
And aye at every verse’s end,
‘God end our misery!’

8
The doors were shut, the keys were thrown
Into a vault of stone,
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .

9
He is dune him to the weir-window,
The stauncheons were oer strong;
There he saw him Lord George Gordon
Come haisling to the town.

10
‘What news, what news now, George Gordon?
Whats news hae you to me?
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .

11
He’s dune him to the weir-window,
The stauncheons were oer strang;
And there he saw the Lady Frendraught,
Was walking on the green.

12
‘Open yer doors now, Lady Frendraught,
Ye’ll open yer doors to me;
And bonny’s be the mornin-gift
That I shall to you gie.

13
‘I’ll gie you a’ Straboggie lands,
And the laigh lands o Strathbrae,
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .