1822.7 Narrative of Nathan Adamson. 2. The gloaming brings nae rest, Farewell Dalgonar glens, Where chrystal streams are flowing; Shower'd o'er with snowy gowan. My heart is sick in love, With all the world's darling: "Ah!" said the old man, with a any way as those worthies of ancient verse What do I know about poetry, since I have not been regularly flogged into a knowledge of its mystery, along with the children of the rich, and the titled; I have been following the Will-o'-wisp of my own idle fancy, instead of studying under the light of an antique lamp; and adoring the white-footed and high-kilted muse of Caledonia, instead of worshipping the nymphs of Helicon, laving my forehead in its stream, and invocating Apollo. Ah! my friend, I have been writing nonsense for seven years;-in a homely and natural way, say you? So much the worse-what has nature to do with poetry.' And he drooped and faded away from that hourneglected his dress, ceased to cheer and charm us with song and tale; and now he lies in the lonely kirkyard of Dryfesdale,-a stone at the foot, and one at the head of his dark and narrow dwelling." When the old man concluded, he gathered all his little books together, and securing them with a strap and a string, sat pondering beside them, with a brow of sorrow, which seemed thinking of Dryfesdale kirkyard, and on the gifted friend who lay low and undistinguished in that ancient burial ground. His dog, ever ready to share in his joys or his sorrows, who, when the old man sang or whistled on his way, gambolled round and round in the sun, and barked in joy at its own shadow-now arose from the hearth fire, against which it had spread its white bosom and brown mouth, and placing its fore feet on the seat, looked wistfully, and with an uneasy whimper, in his master's face. "Bless thee for a poor dumb dog," said one of the shepherds, throwing him as he spoke a piece of cheese. "And bless thee for a faithful servant," said another shepherd, sharing with him a piece of roasted lamb. "And bless thee for a true and a stedfast friend," said the old man himself; "many an eerie road and dangerous way have we braved together; in many a strange place have we slept at midnight; the green grass our bed, and our covering the starry sky. Many a piece of bread thrown to us in scorn by a churlish hand have we divided between us; many a truss of straw have we reposed upon; and if I saved thee from the fierceness of stronger and more servile dogs, thou also hast requited my kindness. Shall I forget when thou fastenedst on the throat of Will Gordon the gypsie, when he came with a bare knife to spill my life, and spulyie my goods, or when ye held up my head in the darkest pool of the Nith into which I had fallen, returning from the merry and hospitable hearth of the good man of the Sandbank. But we must part soon, my faithful four-footed friend." "I wish," said the goodwife, "that ye would cheer up your heart, and not be cast down; you are feeble, and you have been sick-remain under our rooftree;-the converse of this good man, the ministering of these maidens, and perhaps a little of their mirth, will please and divert you. We shall read your histories, hearken to your tales; and I, even I will sing one of your tenderest songs; so cheer up, man-ye will dispense the blessings of ballads, and romances, and sermons, over our moorlands for many sunny summers." "Ah! bless yere kind and cheering tongue,” said the old man, with a shake of his head; "ye were ever the poor man's friend, in word and in deed, but I wish not to deceive myself into the hopes of my span being lengthened. I have had warnings three, beside the voice of decaying limbs, and feebleness of mind, and I am prepared for the journey." "Warnings," said I; “what warnings have you had? the warning of many years is warning enough." "It has not been thought so for me," said the old man; and yet I imagined not the dead would have been moved, to tell me that my departure was nigh. I had a daughter, and I had a friend; they have long ceased to sojourn on the earth; but why should I tell of those awful and mysterious things which are revealed to one like me, between living and dying? It is enough that I know I must soon lay down my head to die, and that this is the last journey I shall make over this friendly land. I have bid farewell to the auld house of Comerue, where I first opened the latch of my pack; I left it my blessing, and that precious book A Groat's worth of Wit for a Penny; meikle may the goodman need it; he has been thrice married, and longs to be wedded again, though he treads on the heels of eighty years. I called in too on the merry portioner of Longbank, and found him lying laughing on the Langsettle, amid some seven-and-thirty grand children; I gave them a ballad each, and a blessing-my heart was too full to bid them farewell. I have been too at the lonesome burialground of Dryfesdale-I went at twilight, for I wished not an old man's sorrow should be seen; my poor dumb friend knew the way to the poor song-maker's grave, and we humbled ourselves for two dreary hours beside it-the only honour that was ever done to the memory of the gentlest bard of Annandale. Ah! I should like-but that's more to be wished for than expected, that some kindly-hearted person would dig my grave, and lay my bones beside his; and I should like too to have something of a sober lykewake. I think ay the spirit is soothed with the sound of solemn song, and douce men's prayers; and though I do 1822. Narrative of Nathan Adamson. not positively enjoin any thing like wassail or carousal, yet a piece of well spiced cake, and a wet-the-lip glass of wine or brandy, or both, would keep life in the living, and would do no harm to the dead. If the douce and dainty wife of Walter Halliday sees no harm in this humble piece of vanity, and has any regard for an auld man who fell in love with her at a Quarrelwood preaching, when she was a rosie damsel, with curled love locks, she will find enough in this poor wallet to make the burial decent, and the grave deep, and bribe besides the devout chissel of that precious man, John Crombie, to cut my grave-stone. Ye will find him dwelling on a little spot of dry and barren land, called Knowebuckle, near the green groves of Dalswinton." "Ah! Knowebuckle," said a young and merry Cameronian, from that little and graceless village called Quarrelwood, who had just escaped from the discipline and restraint of a strict professor to the more lax believers among the moorlands; "I know the place a ringing gravel, and a pouring sand;-all the wit of man could never persuade a blade of corn to grow upon it; and John Crombie! I think I see his worsted wig, and his scripture-quoting face before me at this moment; dancing was his abomination, and strong drink he abhorred-and the company of women was to him as the thing which tempt ed Judah to sin. Honest John loved no pleasures that were expensive, and yet, for all the land he bought, and the gold he amassed, a fever caught him one day counting his wealth, and carried him to the grave without a penny in his pocket, and who will cut his grave-stone no one knows." "And is douce John Crombie dead?" said a shepherd; "Who now shall go from parish to parish, engraving the virtues of our fathers on churchyard stones; who now will lift up the bonnet, and pour a long blessing o'er a basin of begged broth; and who will keep the love of lucre living among us?" "Ah! and is John Crombie dead?" said a dame from the corner, who had come to barter the luxuries of the vales for the wool of the mountains; "he prayed the longest prayer at a burial, drank the deepest cup at a bridal, and if all his gifts were graces, he Amid this light and vain discourse, it would be a pleasant and an acceptable thing to me to be placed in some lonesome spot; my back to a tree, my feet to a running stream, and my face to the heaven, that I might die with the wonders of Him above spread out in glory before me. Free, free, would the spirit part then; and I have often thought that the presence of the frail labours of man, the polished woods, the whited wall, and the woven hangings retarded the flight of the ethereal part. But I see ye think I am raving, and I'll no say but it may seem so to the mass of mankind. I shall now retire to the little favourite bedchamber, with the smooth floor, and the brown hangings; but be not surprised if I am gone away by the dawn, for I have a strange desire to see the wild and lonely glen of Johnstone before I die." And with these words he arose and went into his little bedchamber. The morning was one of the sweetest and balmiest with which summer blesses the month of July. Shepherds are early movers-they rise with the lark, but I sought not to fulfil this ancient boast-I only arose with the sun, and, standing in the open porch, looked towards the pasture lands. The shepherd watched at the head of his flock; the moor game retired to the mountain sides; the song of the maiden was heard in the vale, while the house-smoke climbed slow, and blue, into the mild morning air. After two hours' meditation on the mysteries of the book of Revelation, I re-entered the house, and seating myself at the breakfast table, spread out my palms to say the grace. "Tarry a moment," said the mistress; "let us first be joined by our guest. Child," said she, addressing one of her sons," go and awaken John Corson." The child went and returned with a shout, "John Corson's gone, his bed's cold, and he has left pack and parcel. I'll warrant ye'll never see him mair-and who will bring me the bonnie song-book he promised, when I cried about the hard proof catechism?" The good wife shook her head at this intelligence, and recalling the last words of the old man, asked her menial maidens if any one of them had seen or heard him pass from the house. To this inquiry one maiden made reply: "As I stood by the tryste thorn, looking eastward, towards Johnstone-holm,-I knew not what could make me stand and look that way, for I hardly expected to see any of the merry Halliday lads so late at e'en, but looking I was, whatever was the cause, when, instead of a straight light-footed youth of eighteen, like Pate Halliday, or his brother Frank, an old man approached, half bent to the ground, a staff in his hand, a dog at his foot, and the very form of douce John Corson. Aha! man, thought I; what have thy grey locks to do with daffin?-no but that a man as old, with so much siller in his pack, might take a bonnie lass by the hand: but love-trysting seemed to be far from his thought, for he sauntered away over the moorland path, and I saw no more of him." And this was all the information which could be obtained. Night came, and midnight too, yet the old man returned not; and on the following morning we traversed moor and mountain, and wood and glen in quest of him; but no tidings could be heard. All that day, and far into the night, the search continued, and many unfrequented places, and every lonely stream, and deep pool, underwent a close and scrupulous examination: our search was all in vain. Many idle, and whimsical, and superstitious rumours began to circulate about his disappearance. We discontinued our pursuit, and returning to our homes, renewed again the talk concerning his mysterious departure. On the third day, a youth came from the neighbourhood of Dryfesdale kirk, and told a story which found many believers. He was returning, he said, about one in the morning, from a tryste with the daughter of a neighbouring farmer; a successful rival had prevailed against him, and he was in a desperate state of mind. A steep scaur, and a deep water, were in his case things to be dreaded, he therefore ascended the river bank, and skirted the old burial ground of Dryfesdale to get upon the regular path. He heard a voice coming from among the thick-piled grave-stones, and he had just as much courage as enabled him to look over the ruined wall. He there saw either old John 1822. Corson, or a spirit in his shape and dress, kneeling over a low grassy grave, and making a most dolorous moan; he might be chaunting some old-world rhyme for aught he knew -but saving the tune of the Martyrs, he never heard aught so mournful. Presently the old man arose from his knees, laid his staff along the ground like one measuring a place for a grave, and he heard him say, "Two ell long, and two ell deep; and that's the princedom the monarch maun come to, as well as old John Corson." He never liked to hear folk talking about such damp and uncomfortable lodgings, so away he went, whistling the tune of "Hamely Halliday," and the tune had enough ado to keep up his courage. On being further questioned, he said the old man was kneeling by the ballad-maker's grave,-an idle and thriftless lad, who died stark mad of the verse-fever, an incurable malady, and was laid among douce and prosaic folk, in the bonnie kirkyard of Dryfe.-This information gave a new turn to our speculations about the fate of the old man; two days elapsed, and we could learn nothing further-no one had seen or heard of him since his midnight visit to the old kirkyard. The farm of Walter Halliday was very extensive, and diversified with hill and dale, and glen and stream; the shepherds had constructed sheals or summer huts on the limit of the land, and several folds were made for favourite sheep among the preserved nooks, where the herbage was fresh and abundant. From one of those folds, a lamb was worried and carried away on two succeeding nights, and two shepherds with fowling-pieces resolved to watch and destroy the depredator, nothing doubtful of his appearing in the form of a fox. Night had broken into day, when they beheld a head with two fierce and staring eyes elevated above the fence of the fold; one of the watchers cocked his piece, brought the muzzle to the level, and laid his cheek to the brown stock. "Stay, stay," said his comrade; "it's not a fox, but a poor hungered dog-de'il take me if I have the heart to shoot him; and a sheepdog too-ye may ken him by his bawsent front.""By my faith I'll shoot him," said his comrade, "if he had their songs and ballads, which as- The sun had not wholly risen above 1 |