And then he turnit him rounde aboutte,
Saying, "Tell to mee, thou beggir knaiffe,
Didst thou evir fychte in felde of blode,
Or battyll ane foemanne hande to glaiffe?"
"Yes, I haif fouchte in syngill fychte,
And in the fronte of battyll keinne,
And I haif stode on felde of blode,
Quhere gossyp like thee durste not be seinne."
"Quhat wolde you thynke, then, beggir knaiffe,
With me to trie your mettyll here?"
"Deil taik the hindmoste," the beggir sayit,
"If I had borrowit the mylleris mere."
Then the beggir hee gotte the mylleris mere,
Als goode ane beigle als beggir colde hae,
His bryddle wals the hayre helterre,
His saddyll wals the sonke of strae.
But soche ane bordlye warriour maike
Ne'er dashyt forthe to dedis of weire;
He semyt to wax in size and shaippe
Quhan mountit on the mylleris mere.
He had walletis behynde, and walletis before, And walletis out ower his sholderis had hee; You mychte als welle perce ane packe of wole, Als trie to perce his fayre bodye.
He keipit his pykit staffe on hie,
And gallopit on, and cryit
And his walletis waifit like twentye wyngis,
That evin ane feirsome sychte wals hee;
But the Lairdis horse colde not stande the sychte,
His very soulle did quaike for dreidde,
For he reirit and snortit lyke ane quhale,
And neirlye fellit his maister deidde.
And or the beggir rechit the grounde,
Be fortye ellis, als I herit saye,
The horse, in spytte of bytte and spurre,
Quhelit off, and fledde lyke fire awaye.
But the mylleris mere wals ane mere of breide,
And better mere nor myller behofit;
For all the warre-steidis horryd dreidde,
Ane fleiter better yaude sho provit:
For the beggir pursuit, shoutyng" Wellhee!"
And harde came on the battyll steidde,
Then he wanne the Lairde ane sturdye thwacke,
That dang his helmette off his heidde.
And rounde and rounde the Landale touir
They gallopit on with mychte and mayne,
Quhille May Mariote and all hir maydis
Lauchit als they nevir lauchit agayne.
And rounde and rounde the Landale touir
The Lairde and his pursuer flewe;
And the walletis daddit rounde and rounde,
And raisit the stoure at every hewe.
And many a hard and hevvye knolle
Felle on the rumpe of the warre steidde, Whilom the braiffe hors gronit and ranne, Holdyng out his taille, and eke his heidde.
Then wolde the beggir quhele aboutte,
To meite the Lairdis horse faice to faice; But the horse no sooner the beggir sawe,
Than spite of dethe he turnit the chaice,
And rounde and rounde the Landale touir,
For the outter gatis were barrit amayne;
And soche ane chaice in soche ane plaice,
Ladye shall nevir behoulde againe.
Till the Lairde, in black despaire and rage,
Flung himselle fercely fro his steidde,
Then threwe the bryddle fro his graspe,
Swearyng to bee the beggiris deidde.
But footte to footte, and hande to hande,
The beggir mette him gallantlye;
At the first buffe the beggir gatte,
The stoure lyke ane snowe-dryfte did flee,
And it flewe intille the Lairdis two eyne,
Till feinte ane styme the Lairde colde se.
But whidder it came fro pepper pocke,
Or beggiris pouche, hee colde not telle,
But it wals als hotte and sharpe to beir,
Als asches fro the graitte of helle.
Then the beggir he lauchit ane wycked lauche,
Als the Lairde he jumpit lyke ane possessit,
And the beggir had nothyng more to doo
But to laye on als lykit him best.
Hee thwackit the Lairde, and hee daddit the Lairde,
And hee clouttit him quhille in wofull plychte.
"You gaif me ane aumouss," the beggir sayit,
"So I'll not taike thyne lyffe outrychte.
"But betydde mee weille, betydde mee wo,
Thyne glyttering garbe shalle go with mee,
To teche thee challynge ane hombil beggir,
Quha wals not trobyling thyne nor thee."
He tyrelit the Lairde unto the boffe,
And buskit himselle in his fynerye,
Then beltyd on his nobyl brande,
And wow but ane jollye beggir wals hee!
But he lefte the Lairde his pykit kente,
His powlderit duddis, and pockis of meille-
Och nevir wals wooir so harde bestedde,
Or ane hauchtye herte broughte downe so weille!
He hathe clothit himselle in the beggiris duddis,
No oder remede had hee the whylle,
But his horse wold not lette him come neirre-
No, not wythin ane half a mylle.
But quherre he fledde, or quherre he spedde,
I nevir colde lerne with all myne lore,
But hee nevir sette uppe his faice agayne,
And nevir wals seine in Scotlande more.
But wo be to that May Mariote!
Quhatis to be wonne at womanis hande!
For sho has wedded that beggir knaiffe,
And maide him lorde of alle hir lande!
For quha wals hee but the Knychte of Home,
The dreade of all the Border boundis,
Quham that connyng May had warnyt weille
To watche the Lairde in alle his roundis.
And the pretendit mylleris mere
Wals the ae best beste that evir wals born;
Oft had sho broke the English rankis,
And laid theyre leideris all forlorne.
May nevir ane braggarde bruike the glaive
That beste befyttis ane nobyll hande-
And everye lovir losse the daime
Who goes hir favour to commande !
The hero of this legend seems to have been Sir Alexander, the tenth knight of Home; for, on consulting the registers of that family, I find that he was married to Mariote, or Marriotta, sole daughter and heiress of Landale of Landale, in the county of Berwick.
Mount-Benger, March 12, 1830.
THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE one.
I DARE thee to forget me! go wander where thou wilt,
Thy hand upon the vessel's helm, or on the sabre's hilt;
Away! thou'rt free! o'er land and sea, go rush to danger's brink!
But oh, thou canst not fly from thought! thy curse will be-to think!
Remember me! remember all-my long-enduring love,
That link'd itself to perfidy; the vulture and the dove!
Remember in thy utmost need, I never once did shrink,
But clung to thee confidingly; thy curse shall be—to think!
Then go that thought will render thee a dastard in the fight,
That thought, when thou art tempest-tost, will fill thee with affright;
In some vile dungeon mayst thou lie, and, counting each cold link
That binds thee to captivity, thy curse shall be-to think!
Go! seek the merry banquet-hall, where younger maidens bloom,
The thought of me shall make thee there endure a deeper gloom;
That thought shall turn the festive cup to poison while you drink,
And while false smiles are on thy cheek, thy curse will be-to think!
Forget me! false one, hope it not! When minstrels touch the string,
The memory of other days will gall thee while they sing;
The airs I used to love will make thy coward conscience shrink,
Aye, ev'ry note will have its sting-thy curse will be-to think!
Forget me! No, that shall not be! I'll haunt thee in thy sleep,
In dreams thou❜lt cling to slimy rocks that overhang the deep;
Thou'lt shriek for aid! my feeble arm shall hurl thee from the brink,
And when thou wak'st in wild dismay, thy curse will be-to think!
Tacete, tacete, O suoni triumfanti !
Risvegliate in vano 'l cor che non può liberarsi.
WHEREFORE and whither bear'st thou up my spirit,
On eagle-wings, through every plume that thrill?
It hath no crown of victory to inherit-
Be still, triumphant Harmony! be still!
Thine are no sounds for Earth, thus proudly swelling
Into rich floods of joy :-it is but pain
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling,
To sink so fast, so heavily again!
No sounds for Earth?-Yes, to young Chieftain dying
On his own battle-field at set of sun,
With his freed Country's Banner o'er him flying,
Well mightst thou speak of Fame's high guerdon won.
No sounds for Earth ?-Yes, for the Martyr leading
Unto victorious Death serenely on,
For Patriot by his rescued Altars bleeding,
Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.
But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating
Against Life's narrow bound, in conflict vain!
For Power, for Joy, high Hope, and rapturous greeting,
Thou wak'st lone thirst-be hush'd, exulting strain.
Be hush'd, or breathe of Grief!-of Exile-yearnings
Under the willows of the stranger-shore;
Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings,
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more,
Breathe of deep Love-a lonely Vigil keeping
Through the night-hours o'er wasted health to pine;
Rich thoughts and sad like faded rose-leaves heaping,
In the shut heart, at once a Tomb and Shrine.
Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing
From Worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky;
Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' undying-
Of Joy no more-bewildering Harmony!
|