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GLENFINLAS;

OR

LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.

For them the viewless forms of air obey,
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair;

They know what spirit brews the stormful day,
And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare,
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

THE tradition upon which the following stanzas are founded runs thus: While two highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bathy (a hut built for the purpose of hunting,) and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called, the Glen of the Green Women.

Glenfinlas is a tract of forest ground, lying in the highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue called the Trosachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the highlands from that town. Glenartney is a forest near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery.

O HONE a rie'! O hone a rie'!†

The pride of Albyn's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see lord Ronald more!
O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never fear'd a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow!
Well can the Saxon widows tell,1

How, on the Teith's resounding shore,
The boldest lowland warriors fell,

As down from Lenny's pass you bore.
But o'er his hills, on festal day,

How blazed lord Ronald's beltane tree;2
While youths and maids the light strathspey
So nimbly danced, with highland glee.
Cheered by the strength of Ronald's shell,
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;

Coronach is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan.

to hone a rie' signifles-“ Alas for the prince, or chief."

But now the loud lament we swell,
O, ne'er to see lord Ronald more!
From distant isles a chieftain came,

The joys of Ronald's hall to find,
And chase with him the dark brown game,
That bounds o'er Albyn's hills of wind.
'Twas Moy; whom, in Columba's isle,
The seer's prophetic spirit found,3
As, with a minstrel's fire the while,
He waked his harp's harmonious sound.
Full many a spell to him was known,
Which wandering spirits shrink to hear;
And many a lay of potent tone,

Was never meant for mortal ear.
For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,
High converse with the dead they hold,
And oft espy the fated shroud,

That shall the future corpse enfold.
O so it fell, that on a day,

To rouse the red deer from their den, The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scoured the deep Glenfinlas' glen. No vassals wait, their sports to aid,

To watch their safety, deck their board: Their simple dress, the highland plaid;

Their trusty guard, the highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still, when dewy evening fell, The quarry to their hut they drew. In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook The solitary cabin stood, Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,

When three successive days had flown;
And summer mist in dewy balm

Steeped heathy bank and mossy stone.
The moon, half hid in silvery flakes,
Afar her dubious radiance shed,
Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,
And resting on Benledi's head.
Now in their hut, in social guise,

Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy;
And pleasure laughs in Roland's eyes,
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.
"What lack we here to crown our bliss,
While thus the pulse of joy beats high?
What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,
Her panting breath and melting eye?
"To chase the deer of yonder shades,
This morning left their father's pile
The fairest of our mountain maids,

The daughters of the proud Glengyle.
"Long have 1 sought sweet Mary's heart,
And dropped the tear, and heaved the sigh:
But vain the lover's wily art,

Beneath the sister's watchful eye.
"But thou may'st teach that guardian fair,
While far with Mary I am flown,
Of other hearts to cease her care,

And find it hard to guard her own.

"Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle,

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Unmindful of her charge and me,
Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile.

"Or, if she choose a melting tale,

All underneath the green-wood bough,
Will good St. Oran's rule prevail,4

Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?"
"Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,
No more on me shall rapture rise,
Responsive to the panting breath,

Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.
"E'en then, when o'er the heath of wo,
Were sunk my hopes of love and fame,
I bade my harp's wild wailings flow,
On me the seer's sad spirit came.
The last dread curse of angry heaven,
With ghastly sights and sounds of wo,
To dash each glimpse of joy, was given-
The gift, the future ill to know.

"The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,
So gayly part from Oban's bay,
My eye beheld her dashed and torn,
Far on the rocky Colonsay.
"The Fergus too, thy sister's son,

Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power,
As marching 'gainst the lord of Downe,
He left the skirts of huge Benmore.
"Thou only saw'st their tartans* wave,

As down Benvoirlich's side they wound,
Heard'st but the pibroch,† answering brave
To many a target clanking round.
"I heard the groans, I marked the tears,
I saw the wound his bosom bore,
When on the serried Saxon spears

He poured his clan's resistless roar.
"And thou, who bidst me think of bliss,
And bidst my heart awake to glee,
And court, like thee, the wanton kiss,
That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee!
"I see the death-damps chill thy brow;
I hear thy warning spirit cry;

The corpse-lights dance-they're gone, and now--
No more is given to gifted eye!"

"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,
Sad prophet of the evil hour!
Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,
Because to-morrow's storm may lour?
"Or false, or sooth, thy words of wo,

Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear;
His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,
Though doomed to stain the Saxon spear.
«E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,

My Mary's buskins brush the dew."
He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,

But called his dogs and gay withdrew.
Within an hour returned each hound;
In rushed the rousers of the deer;
They howled in melancholy sound,

Then closely couched beside the seer.
No Ronald yet; though midnight came,
And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams,
As, bending o'er the dying flame,

He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. Tartans, the full highland dress, made of the chequered stuff so termed.

+ Pibroch, a piece of martial music, adapted to the highLand bagpipe.

And sudden cease their moaning howl;
Closed press'd to Moy, they mark their fears
By shivering limbs, and stifled growl.
Untouched, the harp began to ring,
As softly, slowly, op'd the door,
And shook responsive every string,

As light a footstep pressed the floor.
And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light,
Close by the minstrel's side was seen
An huntress maid, in beauty bright,

All dropping wet her robes of green.
All dropping wet her garments seem,
Chilled was her cheek, her bosom bare,
As, bending o'er the dying gleam,

She wrung the moisture from her hair
With maiden blush she softly said,
"O gentle huutsman, hast thou seen,
In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade,
A lovely maid in vest of green?
"With her a chief in highland pride;
His shoulders bear the hunter's bow,
The mountain dirk adorns his side,

Far on the wind his tartans flow?"
"And who art thou? and who are they?"
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied:
"And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,
Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?""
"Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,
Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,
Our father's towers o'erhang her side,
The castle of the bold Glengyle.

"To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer,

Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here, The son of great Macgillianore.

"O aid me, then, to seek the pair,

Whom, loitering in the woods, 1 lost;
Alone, I dare not venture there,
Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost."
"Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there;
Then, first, my own sad vow to keep,
Here will I pour my midnight prayer,
Which still must rise when mortals sleep."
"O first, for pity's gentle sake,

Guide a lone wanderer on her way!
For I must cross the haunted brake,
And reach my father's towers ere day."
"First, three times tell each ave-bead,

And thrice a pater-noster say;
Then kiss with me the holy reed:

So shall we safely wind our way."
"O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!
Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow,
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,

Which best befits thy sullen vow.
"Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire,
Thy heart was froze to love and joy,
When gayly rung thy raptured lyre,
To wanton Morna's melting eye."
Wild stared the minstrel's eye of flame,
And high his sable locks arose,
And quick his colour went and came,
As fear and rage alternate rose.

"And thou! when by the blazing oak
I lay, to her and love resign'd,
Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,

Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind?
"Not thine a race of mortal blood,
Nor old Glengyle's pretended line;
Thy dame, the lady of the flood,

Thy sire, the monarch of the mine." He mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme,

And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer;5 Then turned him to the eastern clime,

And sternly shook his coal-black hair.
And, bending o'er his harp, he flung

His wildest witch-notes on the wind;
And loud, and high, and strange, they rung,
As many a magic change they find.
Tall waxed the spirit's altering form,
Till to the roof her stature grew;
Then, mingling with the rising storm,
With one wild yell, away she flew.
Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear:
The slender hut in fragments flew;
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair

Was waved by wind, or wet by dew.
Wild mingling with the howling gale,

Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise; High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood,

As ceased the more than mortal yell; And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell.

Next, dropped from high a mangled arm;

The fingers strained a half-drawn blade;
And last, the life-blood streaming warm,,
Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.
Oft o'er that head, in battling field,
Streamed the proud crest of high Benmore;
That arm the broad claymore could wield,
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.
Wo to Moneira's sullen rills!

Wo to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!
There never son of Albyn's hills
Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen!
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that sheltering den,
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet
The wayward ladies of the glen.
And we-behind the chieftain's shield,
No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field-
And we the loud lament must swell.
O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!

The pride of Albyn's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see lord Ronald more!

NOTES.

1. Well can the Saxon widows tell.-P. 400.

The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied by the highlanders to their low-country neighbours.

2. How blazed lord Ronald's beltane tree.-P. 400. The fires lighted by the highlanders on the first of May, in compliance with a custom derived from the pagan times, are termed, the Beltane Tree. It is a festival celebrated with various su

perstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales.

3. The seer's prophetic spirit found, &c.-P. 400.

I can only describe the second sight, by adopting Dr. Johnson's definition, who calls it "an impression, either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant and future are perceived and seen as if they were present." To which I would only add, that the speetral appearances, thus presented, usually presage misfortune; that the faculty is painful to those who suppose they possess it; and that they usually acquire it, while themselves under the pressure of melancholy.

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4. Will good St. Oran's rule prevail.-P. 401. St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. Columba, and was buried in lcolmkill. His pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. cording to the legend, he consented to be buried alive, in order to propitiate certain demons of the soil, who obstructed the attempts of Columba to build a chapel. Columba caused the body of his friend to be dug up, after three days had elapsed, when Oran, to the horror and scandal of the assistants, declared, that there was neither a God a judgment, nor a future state! He had no time to make further discoveries, for Columba caused the earth once more to be shovelled over him with the utmost despatch. The chapel, however, and the cemetery, was called Reilig Ouran; and, in memory of his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted to pay her devotions, or be buried, in that place. This is the rule alluded to in the poem.

5. And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer.-P. 402. St. Fillan has given his name to many chapels, holy fountains, &c. in Scotland. He was, according to Camerarius, an abbot of Pittenweem, ia Fife, from which situation he retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of Glenurchy, A. D. 649. While engaged in transcribing the Scriptures, his left hand was observed to send forth such a splendour, as to afford light to that with which he wrote; a miracle which saved many candles to the convent, as St. Fillan used to spend whole nights in that exercise. The 9th of January was dedicated to this saint, who gave his name to Kilfillan, in Renfrew, and St. Phillans, or Forgend, in Fife. Lesley, lib. 7, tells us, that Robert the Bruce was possessed of Fillan's miraculous and luminous arm, which he inclosed in a silver shrine, and had it carried at the head of his army. Previous to the battle of Bannockburn, the king's chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted the relic, and deposited it in some place of security, lest it should fall into the hands of the English. But, lo! while Robert was addressing his prayers to the empty casket, it was observed to open and shut suddenly; and, on inspection, the saint was found to have himself deposited his arm in the shrine, as an assurance of victory. Such is the tale of Lesley. But though Bruce little needed that the arm of St. Fillan should assist his own, he dedicated to him, in gratitude, a priory at Killin, upon Loch Tay.

In the Scots Magazine for July, 1802 (a national periodical publication, which has lately revived with considerable energy,) there is a copy of a very curious crown-grant, dated 11th July, 1487, by which James III confirms to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of Strathfillan, in Perthshire, the peace. able exercise and enjoyment of a relic of St. Fillan, called the Quegrich, which he, and his pre

decessors, are said to have possessed since the days of Robert Bruce. As the quegrich was used to cure diseases, this document is, probably, the most ancient patent ever granted for a quack medicine. The ingenious correspondent, by whom it is furnished, further observes, that additional particulars concerning St. Fillan are to be found in Bullenden's Boece, book 4, folio ccxiii, and in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, 1772, pp. 11, 15.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. SMAYLHO'ME, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow Crags, the property of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden. The tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall,

now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended, on three sides, by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as is usual in a border-keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron grate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called The Watchfold; and is said to have been the station of a beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath, in the neighbourhood of Smaylho'me Tower.

And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,
His name was English Will.
"Come thou hither, my little foot-page;
Come hither to my knee;
Though thou art young, and tender of age,
I think thou art true to me.

"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,
And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,
What did thy lady do?"

66

My lady, each night, sought the lonely light,
That burns on the wild Watchfold;
For, from height to height, the beacons bright
Of the English foemen told.
«The bittern clamoured from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross,
To the eiry beacon hill.

"I watched her steps, and silent came
Where she sat her on a stone;
No watchman stood by the dreary flame;
It burned all alone.

"The second night I kept her in sight,
Till to the fire she came,

And, by Mary's might! an armed knight
Stood by the lonely flame.

"And many a word that warlike lord
Did speak to my lady there;
But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast,
And I heard not what they were.
"The third night there the sky was fair,
And the mountain blast was still,
As again I watched the secret pair,
On the lonesome beacon hill.

This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the
scene of the author's infancy, and seemed to claim"
from him this attempt to celebrate them in a border
tale. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon
a well-known Irish tradition.

THE baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,
He spurred his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,
That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,
His banner broad to rear:

He went not 'gainst the English yew
To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack* was braced, and his helmet
was laced,

And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;

At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.

The baron returned in three days' space,
And his looks were sad and sour;

And weary was his courser's pace,
As he reached his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor!
Ran red with English blood;

Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,
'Gainst keen lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed,

His acton pierced and tore;

His axe and his dagger with blood embrued,
But it was not English gore.
He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;

The plate-jack is coat-armour; the vaunt-brace, or wambrace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe.

And I heard her name the midnight hour,
And name this holy eve;

And say, Come this night to thy lady's bower:
Ask no bold baron's leave.

"He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
His lady is all alone,

The door she'll undo to her knight so true,
On the eve of good St. John.'

"I cannot come; I must not come,

1 dare not come to thee;

On the eve of St. John I must wander alone;
In thy bower I may not be.'

"Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!
Thou shouldst not say me nay;
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
Is worth the whole summer's day.

"And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder

shall not sound,

And rushes shall be strewed on the stair,
So, by the black rood-stone,* and by holy St. John,
Í conjure thee, my love, to be there!?

"Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush
beneath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow,
Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the

east,

And my footstep he would know.'

"O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east! For to Dryburght the way he has ta'en;

The black rood of Melrose was a crucifix of black marble, and of superior sanctity,

+Dryburgh abbeyisbeautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed. After its dissolution, it became the property

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For, by Mary, he shall die!"

"The Ancram Moor is red with gore,
For many a southron fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,
To watch our beacons well."

The lady blushed red, but nothing she said:
Nor added the baron a word:

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,

And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron tossed and turned,

And oft to himself he said,

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep

It cannot give up the dead!"

It was near the ringing of matin bell,
The night was well nigh done,

"His arms shone full bright in the beacon's red When a heavy sleep on that baron fell,

light,

His plume it was scarlet and blue;

On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, And his crest was a branch of the yew."

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, Loud dost thou lie to me!

For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, All under the Eildon tree."*

"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!

For I heard her name his name;
And that lady bright, she called the knight,
Sir Richard of Coldinghame.'

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The bold baron's brow then changed, I trow,
From high blood-red to pale!

"The grave is deep and dark, and the corpse is stiff and stark,

So I may not trust thy tale.

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,
And Eildon slopes to the plain,
Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,
That gay gallant was slain.

"The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drowned the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks

do sing,

For sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

On the eve of good St. John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there,
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

"Alas! away, away!" she cried,

"For the holy Virgin's sake!" "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake.

"By Eildon tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain;

The mass and the death prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon's height,
For a space is doomed to dwell.

"At our trysting-place, for a certain space,
I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Hadst thou not conjured me so."

Love mastered fear; her brow she crossed;
"How, Richard, hast thou sped?

And art thou saved, or art thou lost?"
The Vision shook his head!

He passed the court gate, and he op'd the tower "Who spilleth life shall forfeit life; grate,

And he mounted the narrow stair,

To the bartizan seat, where, with maids that on

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So bid thy lord believe:
That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive."

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;
His right upon her hand:

The lady shrunk, and, fainting, sunk,
For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score of fingers four,
Remains on that board impressed;
And for evermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,2
Ne'er looks upon the sun:
There is a monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That monk, who speaks to none,
That nun was Smaylho'me's lady gay,

That monk the bold baron.

* Trysting-place, a place of rendezvous.

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