Chorus hymeneal Or triumphant chaunt, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain?

What fields or waves or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep Thou of death must deem, Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy note flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter, With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness, That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Inferior to this, but still very beautiful, more natural, and more especially Scottish, are the following lines to the Skylark by the "Ettrick Shepherd:"

Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and c.u.mberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling place-- O to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar singing away!

Then when the gloaming comes Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling place-- O to abide in the desert with thee!

Filled with these pleasant images, we pursue our journey, and wind along the edge of the Pentland Hills, with their thrilling memories of "Auld-lang-syne;" pa.s.s the "bonnie braes" of Woodhouselee, and reach old Glencorse Church, "bosomed high 'mong tufted trees;" cross "a bonnie burn," called "Logan Water," and get a glimpse of "House of Muir," in the vicinity of which the old Scottish Covenanters met with a terrible slaughter, from General Dalzell of Binns, the "bluidy Dalzell," as the Scots call him to this day. Pa.s.sing through the humble village of Silver Burn, we reach Newhall, once the residence of Dr. Pennycuick, a poet and an antiquary, and subsequently of the Forbes family highly distinguished for their talents and virtues. Disposing of our carriage, let us ramble, at our "own sweet will," amid those beautiful grounds.

The mansion of Newhall, once a battlemented castle of the Crichtoun family, stands on the left bank of the North Esk, within a curvature of the stream, under the shadow of the Pentland Hills. On either side is a deep ravine, terminating in the glen of the Esk, one of the most romantic spots in Scotland. Pa.s.sing round on the eastern side, we gaze down into the ravine, overhung by the remains of a small round tower, and densely shaded with tangled trees. A dark rill gurgles at the bottom, here and there leaping into beautiful cascades, and flinging its glittering spray among the dark woods. Pa.s.sing to the other side, we come to what was formerly the site of an old prison and chapel, encircled by a pleasant walk. The ravine beneath is filled with trees and shrubbery, but has no stream. From this point the eye glances up through the wooded glen, echoing with the songs of the mavis and the linnet, and over to a mineral well, sheltered by copsewood and pines.

But Newhall, and the grounds around it, derive their chief interest from their connection with the well-known pastoral poem of "Allan Ramsay."

The very air seems redolent with the poetry of "The Gentle Shepherd."

Leaving the house, we reach a little "haugh," or low sheltered spot, where the Esk and the rivulets from the Harbour Craig mingle their waters. At the side of the stream are some romantic gray crags, directly fronting the south, and looking up a turn in the glen. These, adorned with green birches, shrubs, and copsewood, and shading the limpid stream which makes a curve, and then glides underneath their overhanging cliffs, form "a shady bield," completely protected from observation. In this spot is laid the first act of "The Gentle Shepherd."

"Beneath the south side of a craggy field, Where crystal springs the halesome water yield, Twa youthful shepherds on the gowans lay, Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May."

Ascending the vale, and just behind the house, we come to a considerable holm or green, with the babbling burn, now gentler in its movement, winding sweetly among the white pebbles. At the head of this quiet retreat, on the edge of the burn, are the ruins of an ancient washing-house, protected by an aged thorn. It was here that the "twa la.s.ses" proposed to wash their "claes," unseen by their lovers.

"A flowery howm between twa verdant braes, Where la.s.ses use to wash and spread their claes, A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground; Its channel pebbles shining smooth and round."

A little further up the burn we come to a hollow, a little beyond what is called "Mary's Bower," where the Esk divides it in the middle, and forms a linn or cascade, called the "How Burn;" a small enclosure above is called the "Braehead Park;" and this hollow beneath the cascade with its bathing pool and little green, its rocks and birches, its wild shrubs and natural flowers, and general air of sequestered and romantic beauty, in every respect corresponds with the poet's exquisite description of the spot called "Habbie's Howe."

"Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe, Where a' the sweets o' spring and summer grow, There, 'tween twa birks out ower a little linn, The water fa's and mak's a singand din;[20]

A pule breast deep, beneath as clear as gla.s.s, Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering gra.s.s."

[Footnote 20: Singing noise.]

Ascending yet further, at a place called the "Carlops," (a contraction of "Carline's Loups," so called, in consequence of a witch or carline having been seen leaping, at night, from one rock to another,) two tall rocks shoot up on either side. Near this, by the side of that old ash tree, stood Mause's Cottage.

"The open field, a cottage in a glen, An auld wife spinning at the sunny end, At a sma' distance, by a blasted tree, Wi faulded arms and half-raised look, ye see Bauldy his lane!"[21]

"A green kail-yard; a little fount, Where water poplin springs; There sits a wife[22] wi' wrinkled front, An' yet she spins and sings."

[Footnote 21: Alone.]

[Footnote 22: Old woman.]

With these localities in our mind, let us sit down on this "gowan'd brae," and run over the story of "The Gentle Shepherd," one of the most graphic pictures of Scottish manners, and one of the sweetest pastorals in any language.

Patie or Patrick, a humble shepherd-lad, born and bred in the region we have entered, about the middle of the seventeenth century, was a handsome fellow, and remarkably distinguished for his good temper and rustic accomplishments. He was of a gay-hearted cheerful disposition, and made the woods and hills ring again with his mirthful songs.

Moreover, he was sensible and well-informed. His mind, indeed, was superior to his station; still he was contented and happy.

Symon Scott, a worthy man and a wealthy farmer, with whom Patie had lived from his childhood, was a tenant of Sir William Preston's, owner of the neighboring lands, who, to save his head, he having taken part with the royalists, had fled his native country, and was living abroad, no one knew where.

Patie loved Peggy Forsyth, a "neebor la.s.sie," of excellent character and great beauty, who fully requited his attachment. This girl was the reputed niece of Glaude Anderson, a comfortable farmer, and a tenant of Sir William's. He had found her one summer morning, at his door, carefully wrapped in swaddling clothes. Being a warm-hearted man, he had adopted the little stranger as his own relative.

The interviews and conversations of the lovers, and their friends, Roger and Jenny, who after some embarra.s.sments from Jenny's independence, are found to be warmly attached to each other are related by the dramatist with great beauty and simplicity. The reader sees them at early morn, or amid the shadows of the gloaming, wandering by the "bonnie burnie's side," and with hearts of innocence, giving themselves up to the full enjoyment of nature's beauties and their own sweet affections. Glaude and Symon are fine specimens of the honest and hospitable farmers of Scotland. The house of the former is such as one often sees in the rural districts:

"A snug thack[23] house, before the door a green, Hens on the midden, ducks in dubs[24] are seen.

On this side stands a barn, on that a byre:[25]

A peat stack joins, an' forms a rural square.

The house is Glaud's;--there you may see him lean, And to his divot[26] seat invites his frien."

[Footnote 23: Thatch.]

[Footnote 24: Pools.]

[Footnote 25: Barn for the cows.]

[Footnote 26: Turf.]

The character and fate of Bauldy are graphically described. He is a wealthy but vulgar minded farmer, attached to Peggy, and resolved, if possible, to withdraw her affections from Patie and secure them for himself. For this purpose he has recourse to Mause, a sensible and worthy old woman, but reputed a witch, from her superiority to the common people. Mause agrees to a.s.sist him, but secretly resolves to expose his ignorance and punish his effrontery. The following is Bauldy's account of the matter:

"Ah! Sir, the witch ca'd Mause, That wins aboon the mill amang the haws, First promised that she'd help me wi' her art, To gain a bonnie thrawart[27] la.s.sie's heart.

As she had trysted, I met wi' 'er this night; But may nae frien o' mine get such a fright!

For the curst hag, instead of doing me guid, (The very thocht o'ts like to freeze my bluid!) Raised up a ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk, Like a dead corse, in sheet as white as milk; Black hands it had, and face as wan as death; Upon me fast the witch and it fell baith, And got me down; while I like a great fool Was 'laboured[28] as I used to be at school: My heart out o' its hool[29] was like to loup, I pithless[30] grew wi' fear, an' had nae houp, Till wi' an elritch laugh, they vanished quite; Syne I, hauf dead wi' anger, fear and spite, c.r.a.p up, and fled straught frae them."

[Footnote 27: Wayward.]

[Footnote 28: Belabored.]

[Footnote 29: Place or socket.]

[Footnote 30: Powerless.]

Tidings had arrived that Sir William, who had now been absent several years, might be expected home, as the king was restored and the royal party was now predominant.