# Traditional Tales of the English and Scottish Peasantry/The Selbys of Cumberland

THE SELBYS OF CUMBERLAND.
Part I.
Thus would she sit a summer eve, and shed The withered tresses from her faded brow; Stretch forth her long and feeble arm, which nursed Three generations—moving thus her knee, And smiling as a mother smiles who dandles Her first-born darling mid the sunny air. And then she chanted an old chivalrous ballad, And muttered snatches of our old sad stories— Such tales as stay the peasant at his plough, The shepherd's sharp shears as they reap the fleece, The household damsel while she twines the thread, And make the maid, even as the ewe-milk reeks Between her whiter fingers, pause and sigh To think of old how gentle love was crossed In green and gladsome Cumberland.
Among the pastoral mountains of Cumberland dwells an unmingled and patriarchal race of people, who live in a primitive manner, and retain many peculiar usages different from their neighbours of the valley and the town. They are imagined by antiquarians to be descended from a colony of Saxon herdsmen and warriors, who, establishing themselves among the mountainous wastes, quitted conquest and spoliation for the peaceful vocation of tending their flocks, and managing the barter of their rustic wealth for the luxuries fabricated by their more ingenious neighbours. In the cultivation of corn they are unskilful or uninstructed; but in all that regards sheep and cattle they display a knowledge and a tact which is the envy of all who live by the fleece and shears. Their patriarchal wealth enables them to be hospitable, and dispense an unstinted boon among all such people as chance, curiosity, or barter scatter over their inheritance.
It happened on a fine summer afternoon that I found myself engaged in the pursuit of an old fox which annually preyed on our lambs, and eluded the vigilance of the most ​skilful huntsmen. Leaving Keswick far behind, I pursued my cunning adversary from glen to cavern, till at last he fairly struck across an extensive tract of upland, and sought refuge from the hotness of pursuit in one of the distant mountains. I had not proceeded far on this wide and desolate tract ere I became fatigued and thirsty, and—what true sportsmen reckon a much more serious misfortune—found myself left alone and far behind—while the shout and the cheer of my late companions began to grow faint and fainter, and I at last heard only the bleat of the flocks or the calling of the curlew. The upland on which I had entered appeared boundless on all sides, while amid the brown wilderness arose innumerable green grassy knolls, with herds of small black cattle and sheep grazing or reposing on their sides and summits. They seemed so many green islands floating amid the ocean of brown blossom with which the heath was covered.
I stood on one of the knolls, and, looking around, observed a considerable stream gushing from a small copse of hazel and lady-fern, which, seeking its way into a green and narrow glen, pursued its course with a thousand freakish windings and turnings. While following with my eye the course of the pure stream out of which I had slaked my thirst, I thought I heard something like the sound of a human voice coming up the glen; and, with the hope of finding some of my baffled companions of the chase, I proceeded along the margin of the brook. At first, a solitary and stunted alder or hazel bush, or mountain ash, in which the hooded crow had sought shelter for her young, was all the protection the stream obtained from the rigour of the mid-day sun. The glen became broader and the stream deeper—gliding over a bed of pebbles, shining, large, and round, half-seen, half-hid beneath the projection of the grassy sward it had undermined; and raising all the while that soft and simmering din which contributes so much music to pastoral verse. A narrow footpath, seldom frequented, winded with the loops and turns of the brook. I had wandered along the margin nearly a quarter of a mile when I approached a large and doddered tree of green holly, on the top of which sat a raven, grey-backed and bald-headed from extreme age, looking down intently on something which it thought worthy of watching beneath.
​I reached the tree unheard or unheeded, for the soft soil returned no sound to my foot; and on the sunward side I found a woman seated on the grass. She seemed bordering on seventy years of age, with an unbent and unbroken frame, a look of lady-like stateliness, and an eye of that sweet and shining hazel colour of which neither age nor sorrow had been able to dim the glance. Her mantle, once green, and garnished with flowers of gold thread at the extremities, lay folded at her feet, together with a broad flat straw hat—an article of dress common seventy or eighty years ago—and a long staff worn smooth as horn by daily employment. Her hair, nut-brown and remarkably long in her youth, was now become as white as December's snow, and its profusion had also yielded, like its colour, to time; for it hung, or rather flowed, over her shoulders in solitary ringlets, and scarcely afforded a minute's employment to her fingers; which seemed to have been once well acquainted with arranging in all its beauty one of Nature's finest ornaments. As she disposed of each tress, she accompanied the motion of her hands with the verse of a legendary ballad, which she chanted, unconscious of my presence, and which probably related to an adventure of her ancestors:
LADY SELBY.
On the holly tree sat a raven black, And at its foot a lady fair Sat singing of sorrow, and shedding down The tresses of her nut-brown hair: And aye as that fair dame's voice awoke, The raven broke in with a chorusing croak:
"The steeds they are saddled on Derwent banks; The banners are streaming so broad and free; The sharp sword sits at each Selby's side, And all to be dyed for the love of me: And I maun give this lily-white hand To him who wields the wightest brand:
"She coost her mantle of satin so fine, She kilted her gown of the deep sea-green, She wound her locks round her brow, and flew Where the swords were glimmering sharp and sheen: As she flew, the trumpet awoke with a clang, And the sharp blades smote, and the bowstrings sang.
​"The streamlet that ran down the lonely vale, Aneath its banks, half-seen, half-hid, Seemed melted silver—at once it came down, From the shocking of horsemen, reeking and red; And that lady flew, and she uttered a cry, As the riderless steeds came rushing by.
"And many have fallen, and more have fled: All in a nook of bloody ground That lady sat by a bleeding knight, And strove with her fingers to stanch the wound: Her locks, like sunbeams when summer's in pride, She plucked and placed on his wounded side.
"And aye the sorer that lady sighed, The more her golden locks she drew; The more she prayed, the ruddy life's blood The faster and faster came trickling through: On a sadder sight ne'er looked the moon That o'er the green mountain came gleaming down.
"He lay with his sword in the pale moonlight; All mute and pale she lay at his side: He, sheathed in mail from brow to heel; She, in her maiden bloom and pride: And their beds were made, and the lovers were laid, All under the gentle holly's shade.
"May that Selby's right hand wither and rot, That fails with flowers their bed to strew! May a foreign grave be his who doth rend Away the shade of the holly bough! But let them sleep by the gentle river, And waken in love that shall last for ever."
As the old dame ceased her song, she opened her lap, from which she showered a profusion of flowers—such as are gathered rather in the wood or the wild than the garden—on two green ridges which lay side by side beneath the shade of the green holly. At each handful she strewed she muttered, in an under-tone, what sounded like the remains of an ancient form of prayer; when, turning toward the path, she observed me, and said: "Youth, comest thou here to smile at beholding a frail woman strew the dust of the beautiful and the brave with mountain thyme, wild mint, and scented hawthorn?" I soothed her by a tone of submission and reverence: "Eleanor Selby, may the curse of the ballad, which thou sangest even now, be mine, if I come ​to scorn those who honour the fair and the brave. Had I known that the ancient lovers, about whom we so often sing, slept by this lonely stream, I would have sought Cumberland for the fairest and rarest flowers to shower on their grassy beds." "I well believe thee, youth," said the old dame, mollified at once by my respect for the surname of Selby; "how could I forget the altar of Lanercost and thee? There are few at thy wilful and froward time of life who would not mock the poor wandering woman, and turn her wayward affections into ridicule; but I see thy respect for her sitting shining in those sweet and moist eyes of hazel."
While she indulged in this language she replaced her long white locks under her bonnet, resumed her mantle and her staff, and, having adjusted all to her liking, and taken a look at the two graves, and at the raven, who still maintained his seat on the summit of the bush, she addressed me again: "But, come, youth, come—the sun is fast walking down the side of the western mountains: Fremmet-ha' is a good mile distant, and we shall be wise to seek the friendship of its porch with an unset sun above our heads." She took my hand, and, exerting an energy I little expected, we descended the glen together, keeping company with the brook, which received and acknowledged, by an augmented murmur, the accession of several lesser streams. At length we came where the glen, suddenly expanding into a beautiful vale, and the brook into a small, deep, and clear lake, disclosed to my sight the whole domestic establishment of one of the patriarchal portioners of the mountainous regions of Cumberland.
On the northern side of the valley, and fronting the midday sun, stood a large old-fashioned house, constructed of rough and undressed stones, such as are found in abundance on the northern uplands, and roofed with a heavy coating of heath, near by an ell in thickness; the whole secured with bands of wood and ropes of flax, in a manner that resembled the checks of a Highland plaid. Something which imitated a shepherd's crook and a sheathed sword was carved on a piece of hewn stone in the front, and underneath was cut in rude square raised letters, "Randal Rode, 1545." The remains of old defences were still visible to a person of an antiquarian turn; but sheep-folds, cattle-folds, and swine-pens usurped the trench and the rampart, and filled the whole southern side of the valley. In the middle ​of the lake shattered walls of squared stone were visible, and deep in the clear water a broken and narrow causeway might be traced, which once secured to the proprietor of the mansion a safe retreat against any hasty incursion from the restless borderers, who in former times were alternately the plunderers or defenders of their country. The descendants of Randal Rode seemed to be sensible that their lot was cast in securer times, and instead of practising with the bow, or that still more fatal weapon the gun, or with the sword or with the spear, they were collected on a small green plat of ground on the margin of the lake, to the number of twelve or fourteen, indulging in the rustic exercises of wrestling, leaping, throwing the bar, and casting the stone. Several old white-headed men were seated at a small distance on the ground, maidens continually passed backwards and forwards, with pails of milk, or with new-moulded cheese, casting a casual glance at the pastime of the young men—the valley all the while re-murmuring with the din of the various contests.
As we approached a young man, who had thrown the stone—a pebble massy and round—beyond all the marks of his companions, perceived us coming, and came running to welcome the old woman with all the unrestrained joyousness of eighteen. "Welcome, Dame Eleanor Selby, welcome to Fremmet-ha'! For thy repose I have ordered a soft warm couch, and from no fairer hands than those of my own sister, Maude Rode; and for thy gratification, as well as mine own, have I sought far and wide for a famous ballad of the Selbys; but we are fallen on evil days—the memory of our oldest men only yielded me fragments: these I have pieced together, and shall gladly sing it with all the grace I may." "Fair fall thee, youth," said the old woman, pleased at the revival of a traditional rhyme recording the fame of her house; "thy companions are all clods of the valley, no better than the stones they cast, the bars they heave, and the dull earth they leap upon, compared to thee. But the Selbys' blood within thee overcomes that of the Rodes." The young man came close to her ear, and in an interceding whisper said: "It is true, Dame Eleanor Selby, that my father is but a tender of flocks, and nowise comparable to the renowned house of Selby, with whom he had the fortune to intermarry; but, by the height of Skiddaw and the depth of Solway, he is as proud of his churl's blood as the loftiest ​of the land; and the welcome of that person would be cold, and his repulse certain, who should tell him the unwelcome tale that he wedded above his degree." "Youth, youth," said the old woman, with hasty and marked impatience, "I shall for thy sake refrain from comparing the churlish name of Rode with the gentle name of Selby; but I would rather sit a winter night on Skiddaw than have the best who bear the name of Rode to imagine that the hem of a Selby's robe had not more of gentleness than seven acres of Rode's. But thou hast promised me a song: even let me hearken to it now in the free open air, sitting by an ancient summer-seat of the Selbys; it will put me in a mood to enter thy mother's abode." She seated herself on the margin of the lake, while the young man, surrounded by his companions, sung in a rough free voice this legendary ballad, of which I had the good fortune to obtain a copy:
SIR ROLAND GRAEME.
The trumpet has rung on Helvellyn side, The bugle in Derwent vale; And an hundred steeds came hurrying fleet, With an hundred men in mail: And the gathering cry and the warning word Was "Fill the quiver and sharpen the sword."
And away they bound—the mountain deer Starts at their helmets' flash: And away they go—the brooks call out With a hoarse and a murmuring dash; The foam flung from their steeds as they go Strews all their track like the drifting snow.
What foe do they chase, for I see no foe; And yet, all spurred and gored, Their good steeds fly—say, seek they work For the fleet hound or the sword? I see no foe—yet a foe they pursue, With bow and brand, and horn and halloo.
Sir Richard spurs on his bonnie brown steed, Sir Walter on his black; There are a hundred steeds, and each Has a Selby on its back: And the meanest man there draws a brand Has silver spurs and a baron's land.
​The Eden is deep in flood—lo! look How it dashes from bank to bank! To them it seems but the bonnie green lea, Or the vale with brackens rank. They brave the water and breast the banks, And shake the flood and foam from their flanks.
The winding and haunted Esk is nigh, With its woodlands wild and green; "Our steeds are white with foam; shall we wash Their flanks in the river sheen?" But their steeds may be doomed to a sterner task Before they pass the woodland Esk.
All at once they stoop on their horses' necks, And utter a long shrill shout; And bury their spurs in their coursers' flanks, And pluck their bright blades out: The spurned-up turf is scattered behind, For they go as the hawk when he sails with the wind.
Before them not far on the lilied lea There is a fair youth flying, And at his side rides a lovely maid, Oft looking back and sighing: On his basnet dances the heron's plume, And fans the maid's cheek, all of ripe rose bloom.
"Now do thy best, my bonnie grey steed, And carry my true love over, And thy corn shall be served in a silver dish, And heaped and running over: Oh! bear her safe through dark Esk's fords, And leave me to cope with her kinsmen's swords!"
Proud looked the steed, and had braved the flood Had it foamed a full mile wider; Turned his head in joy, and his eye seemed to say, "I'm proud of my lovely rider; And though Selbys stood thick as the leaves on the tree, All scatheless I'd bear thee o'er mountain and lea."
A rushing was heard on the river banks, Wide rang wood, rock, and linn; And that instant an hundred horsemen at speed Came foaming and fearless in: "Turn back, turn back, thou Scottish loon; Let us measure our swords 'neath the light of the moon!"
An hundred horsemen leaped lightly down, With their silver spurs all ringing; And drew back, as Sir Richard his good blade bared, While the signal trump kept singing: Sir Roland Graeme down his mantle threw With a martial smile, and his bright sword drew.
​With a measuring eye and a measured pace, Nigher they came and nigher; Then made a bound and made a blow, And the smote helms yielded fire: December's hail, or the thunder blast, Ne'er flashed so bright, or fell so fast.
"Now yield thee, Graeme, and give me back Lord Selby's beauteous daughter; Else I shall sever thy head and heave 't To thy light love o'er the water." "My sword is steel, Sir Richard, like thine, And thy head's as loose on thy neck as mine."
And again their dark eyes flashed, and again They closed—on sweet Eskside, The ring-doves sprang from their roosts, for the blows Were echoing far and wide: Sir Richard was stark, and Sir Roland was strong; And the combat was fierce, but it lasted not long.
There's blood upon young Roland's blade, There's blood on Sir Richard's brand; There's blood showered o'er their weeds of steel And rained on the grassy land; But blood to a warrior's like dew to the flower; The combat but waxed still more deadly and dour.
A dash was heard in the moonlit Esk, And up its banks of green Fair Edith Selby came with a shriek, And knelt the knights between: "Oh spare him, Sir Richard!" She held her white hands, All spotted with blood 'neath the merciless brands.
Young Roland looked down on his true love and smiled, Sir Richard looked also, and said— "Curse on them that true love would sunder!" He sheathed With his broad palm his berry-brown blade; And long may the Selbys abroad and at hame, Find a friend and a foe like the good gallant Graeme!
While the ballad proceeded, the old representative of the house of Selby sat with a look of demure dignity and importance, and regarded this minstrel remembrance of the forcible engrafting of the predatory name of Graeme on the stately tree of the Selbys with a look of the darkest displeasure. When the youth finished, she arose hastily, and, elevating herself to her utmost stature, said: "May that ignorant minstrel be mute for ever, or confine his strains to the beasts of the field and the churls who tend them, who has presumed to fashion the ballad of Roland Graeme's wooing of Edith Howard of Naworth into a rhyme ​reproaching with this ungentle marriage the spotless house of Selby! A gentle Selby wed a border Graeme! May the heavens forfend! Who will lay a dog in a deer's den? No," said she, muttering in continuance, as she walked into the house of her ancestors; "we have had sad mishaps among us, but nothing like that. One branch of the stately Selby tree carried the kite's nest of a Forster, another the rook's nest of a Rode; but neither scion nor bough have sheltered the hooded-crow brood of the men of the debateable land—men neither of predatory Scotland nor haughty England, but begotten in the haste of a mutual inroad—and the herald's office cannot divine by whom." The mutterings of the wayward woman fell unregarded in the ear of fair Maude Rode, one of the sweetest maidens that ever pressed curd or milked ewes among the pastoral mountains of Cumberland. She welcomed old Eleanor with one of those silent glances which says so much, and spread her a seat, and ministered to her with the demeanour of the humblest handmaid of the house of Selby when its splendour was fullest. This modest kindness soon had its effect on the mutable descendant of this ancient house; she regained her serenity, and her wild legends and traditional tales were related to no ungrateful ears.
Part II
And when she came to yon kirkyard, Where graves are green and low, She saw full thirty coal-black steeds All standing in a row.
And out she stretched her trembling hand, Their mighty sides to stroke: And aye she reached, and aye she stretched— 'Twas nothing all but smoke.
They were but mere delusive forms Of films and sulph'ry wind; And every wave she gave her hand A gap was left behind.
James Hogg.
"A bright fire, a clean floor, and a pleasant company," is one of the proverbial wishes of domestic comfort among the wilds of Cumberland. The moorland residence of Randal ​Rode exhibited the first and second portions of the primitive wish, and it required no very deep discernment to see that around the ample hearth we had materials for completing the proverb. In each face was reflected that singular mixture of gravity and humour peculiar, I apprehend, to the people of the North. Before a large fire, which it is reckoned ominous ever to extinguish, lay half a dozen sheep dogs, spreading out their white bosoms to the heat, and each placed opposite to the seat of its owner. The lord—or rather portioner—of Fremmet-ha' himself lay apart on a large couch of oak antiquely carved, and ornamented, like some of the massive furniture of the days of the olden church, with beads, and crosses, and pastoral crooks. This settee was bedded deep with sheepskins, each retaining a fleece of long white wool. At each end lay a shepherd's dog, past its prime, like its master, and, like him, enjoying a kind of half-ruminating and drowsy leisure peculiar to old age. Three or four busy wheels, guided by as many maidens, manufactured wool into yarn for rugs, and mauds, and mantles. Three other maidens, with bared arms, prepared curds for cheese, and their hands rivalled in whiteness the curdled milk itself. Under the light of a large candlestick several youths pursued the amusement of the popular game of draughts. This piece of rude furniture ought not to escape particular description. It resembled an Etruscan candelabrum, and was composed of a shaft, capable of being depressed or elevated by means of a notched groove, and sunk secure in a block of wood at the floor, terminated above in a shallow cruse or plate, like a three-cocked hat, in each corner of which stood a large candle, rendering the spacious hall where we sat as light as day. On this scene of patriarchal happiness looked my old companion, Eleanor Selby, contrasting, as she glanced her eye in succession over the tokens of shepherds' wealth in which the house abounded, the present day with the past; the times of the fleece, the shears, and the distaff, with those of broils, and blood, and mutual inroad and invasion, when the name of Selby stood high in the chivalry of the North. One might observe in her changing looks the themes of rustic degradation and chivalrous glory on which she brooded; and the present peaceful time suffered by the comparison, as the present always does in the contemplation of old age. The constant attention of young Maude Rode, who ministered ​to the comfort of her ancient and wayward relative, seemed gradually to soothe and charm down the demon of proud ancestry who maintained rule in her breast; and, after interchanging softer and softer looks of acknowledgment and kindness with her fair young kinswoman, she thus proceeded to relate some of the adventures she had witnessed in the time of her youth. These she poured out in a very singular manner, unconscious, apparently, at times, of the presence of others, and often addressing herself to the individuals whom her narrative recalled to life, as if they stood lifelike and breathing before her.
"When I was young like thee, Maude Rode, a marvel happened which amazed many: it is, and will be, a lasting tale and a wonder; for it came even as a vision, and I beheld it with these eyes. In those days the crown of this land, which now stands so sure and so shining on the brows of him who rules us, was held as one of ambition's baubles, that might be transferred by the sword to some adventurous head; and men of birth and descent were ready with trumpet and with brand to do battle for the exiled branch of the house of Stuart. Rumours of rebellions and invasions were as frequent as the winds on our heaths; and each day brought a darker and more varied tale of risings in the east, and risings in the west; for the king abroad, and for the king at home; and each relater gave a colour and a substance to his tidings, even as his wishes were. The shepherd went armed to the pasturage of his flocks, the lover went armed to the meeting with his mistress; those who loved silver and gold sought the solitary and silent place, and buried their treasure; the father and mother gazed at their sons and their daughters, and thought on the wrongs of war; and the children, armed with hazel rods for spears and swords of lath, carried on a mimic and venturous war with one another, under the hostile banners of the Lion and the bonnie White Rose. Those who still loved the ancient Church were dreaded by those who loved the new; and the sectarians hated both, and hoped for the day when the jewelled mitre would be plucked off the prelate's head, and when austerity, that denies itself, yet giveth not to others, and zeal, which openeth the gates of mercy but for a tithe of mankind, should hold rule and dominion in the land. Those who had broad lands and rich heritages wished for peace; those who had little to lose hoped acquisitions by a ​convulsion; and there were many of the fiery and intractable spirits of the land who wished for strife and commotion for the sake of variety of pursuit, and because they wished to see coronets and crowns staked on the issue of a battle. Thus, hot discussion and sore dispute divided the people of this land.
"It happened on a fine summer evening that I stopped at the dwelling of David Forester, of Wilton Hall, along with young Walter Selby of Glamora, to refresh myself after the chase on the banks of Derwentwater. The mountain air was mild and balmy, and the lofty and rugged outline of Soutrafell appeared on a canopied background of sky so pure, so blue, and so still, that the earth and heaven seemed blended together. Eagles were visible, perched among the starlight, on the peaks of the rocks; ravens roosted at a vast distance below; and, where the greensward joined the acclivity of rock and stone, the flocks lay in undisturbed repose, with their fleeces shining in dew, and reflected in a broad deep lake at the bottom, so pure and so motionless, that it seemed a sea of glass. The living, or rather human portion of the picture, partook of the same silent and austere character, for inanimate nature often lends a softness or a sternness to man; the meditative melancholy of the mountain and the companionable garrulity of the vale have not escaped proverbial observation. I had alighted from my horse, and, seated on a little green hillock before the house, which the imagination of our mountaineers had not failed to people at times with fairies and elves, tasted some of the shepherds' curds and cream, the readiest and the sweetest beverage which rustic hospitality supplies. Walter Selby had seated himself at my feet, and behind me stood the proprietor of Wilton Hall and his wife, awaiting my wishes with that ready and respectful frankness which those of birth and ancestry always obtain among our mountain peasantry. A number of domestics, shepherds and maidens, stood at a distance, as much for the purpose of listening to our conversation, as from the desire to encumber us with their assistance in recommencing our journey.
"'Young lady,' said David Forester, 'have you heard tidings of note from the North or from the South? The Selbys are an ancient and renowned race, and in days of old held rule from sunny Carlisle to the vale of Keswick—a day's flight for a hawk. They are now lordless and landless; ​but the day may soon come when to thee I shall go hat in hand to beg a boon, and find thee lady of thy lands again, and the noble house of Lanercost risen anew from its briars and desolation.' I understood better than I wished to appear this mysterious address of my entertainer, and was saved from the confusion of a reply, either direct or oblique, by the forward tongue of his wife. 'Marry, and God forbid,' said she, 'that ever old Lady Popery should hold rule in men's homes again! Not that I wholly hate the old dame either; she has really some good points in her character; and if she would put fat flesh in her pot o' Fridays, and no demand o' one a frank confession of failings and frailties, she might hold rule i' the land again for aught I care; though I cannot say I think well of the doctrine that denies nourishment to the body in the belief of bettering the soul. That's a sad mistake in the nature of us moorland people; if a shepherd lacks a meal a minute beyond the sounding of the horn, all the house hears on't: it's a religion, my lady, that will never take root again in this wild place, where men scorn the wheat and haver food, and make, for lack o' kitchen, the fat mutton eat the lean.'
"The good woman of the house was interrupted in her curious speech by the arrival of one of those personages, who, with a horse and pack, distribute the luxuries and the comforts of the city over the mountainous regions of the provinces. His horse, loaded with heavy panniers, came foremost, anxious for a resting-place; and behind came the owner, a middle-aged man, tall and robust, with hair as black as the raven, curled close beneath a very broad bonnet, and in his hand one of those measuring rods of root-grown oak, piked with iron at the under end, and mounted with brass at the upper, which seemed alike adapted for defending or measuring his property. He advanced to the spot where we were seated, like an old acquaintance, asked for and obtained lodgings for the evening, and having disposed of his horse, he took out a small box resembling a casket, which he placed on the grass, and, seating himself beside it, assumed one of those looks of mingled gravity and good humour, prepared alike for seriousness or mirth.
"He was not permitted to remain long in silence. 'Ye come from the North, Simon Packpin,' said one of the menials; 'one can know that by yere tongue; and as ye are a cannie lad at a hard bargain, ye can tell us, in yere own sly ​and cannie way, if it be true that the Highland gentlemen are coming to try if they can set with targe and claymore the crown of both lands on the brow it was made for.' I looked at the person of the querist, a young man of the middle size, with a firm limb and a frank martial mien, and something in his bearing which bespoke a higher ambition than that of tending flocks; his face, too, I thought I had seen before, and under very different circumstances. 'Good-sooth, Wattie Graeme,' said another of the menials, 'ye might as well try to get back butter out o' the black dog's throat, as extract a plain answer from Sleekie Simon. I asked him no further than a month ago, if he thought we would have a change in the land soon. "The moon," quoth he, "will change in its season, and so maun all things human." "But do you think," said I, "that the people will continue to prefer the cold blood of the man who keeps the chair to the warm kindly, English blood o' him that's far away?" "Ay, ay," quoth he; "nae doubt, nae doubt, when we would drink ditch-water rather than red wine." "But," said I, "would it not be better for the land that we had the throne made steadfast under our own native king, than have it shaken by every blast that blows, as I hear it will soon be?" "Say ye sae?" said he, "say ye sae? Better have a finger off than aye wagging." And so he continued for an hour to reply to every plain question with such dubious responses of northern proverb, that I left him as wise as I found him.'
"This historical sketch of the pedlar obtained the notice of the farmer's wife, who, with the natural impatience of womankind, thus abruptly questioned him: 'We honest moorland people hate all mystery: if you are a man loyal in your heart, and upright in your dealings, you may remain and share our supper; but if ye be a spy from these northern marauders, who are coming with houghs as bare as their swords to make a raid and a foray upon us—arise, I say, and depart! But stay, tell us truly when this hawk of the old uncannie nest of the Stuarts will come to wreck and herrie us?' To all this Simon the pedlar opposed a look of the most impenetrable serenity, and turning over his little oaken box, undid a broad strap and buckle, applied a key to the lock, took out combs, and knives, and spectacles, and some of his cheap ornaments for the bosom and the hair, and all the while he continued chanting over the following curious song, addressed ​obliquely to the good dame's queries, and perfectly intelligible to all who knew the poetic language and allegorical meaning which the adherents of the house of Stuart employed to convey tidings of importance to each other:
THE CUCKOO IS A GENTLE BIRD.
The Cuckoo is a gentle bird, And gentle is his note, And April it is pleasant, While the sun is waxing hot; For amid the green woods growing, And the fresh flowers' blooming throng, Forth comes the gentle Cuckoo With his meek and modest song.
The eagle slays the little lambs On Skiddaw high and hoar; The hawk he covets carnage, and The grey glede griens for gore: The raven croaks aloud for blood, Through spring and summer long; While the bonnie Cuckoo gladdens us With many a merry song.
The woodcock comes, and with the swan Brings winter on his wing; The groves cast off their garments green, The small birds cease to sing: The wild birds cease their singing, till The lilies scent the earth; But the Cuckoo scatters roses round Whenever he goes forth.
The Cuckoo is a princely bird, And we will wait awhile, And welcome him with shout and song, In the morn of green April; We'll lay our thighs o'er our good steeds, And gird our claymores on, And chase away the hooded crows That croak around the throne.
"I could not help glancing my eye on this curious and demure traveller; but the perfect simplicity of his looks baffled all the scrutiny which the mysterious import of his song induced me to make. Walter Graeme, one of the shepherds, sat down at his side, desirous of purchasing some of his commodities, but the frank mountaineer was repulsed in an attempt to dip his hands among the motley contents of the pack; and had it come to the arbitration of ​personal strength, there could be little doubt of the issue, for the merchant had a willing hand and a frame of iron.
"Silence ensued for a little while; the pedlar, who for some time had stolen a look at me, seemed all at once to come to some conclusion how to proceed, and, fastening up his little box, approached me with a look of submission and awe. 'Fair lady, the pedlar is but a poor man, who earns an honest penny among the peasantry; but he has a reverence and a love for the noble names which grace our verse and our chivalry; and who has an English heart that knows not and beats not high at the sound of Selby's name? and who bears a Scottish heart that sorrows not for the wreck and the desolation of our most ancient and most noble foe? I tell thee, lady, that I honour thee more—lady, as thou seemest to be, but of a kirtle and a steed—than if thou satest with a footstool of gold, and hadst nobles' daughters bearing up thy train. This cross and rosary'—and he held in his hand these devotional symbols, carved of dark wood, and slightly ornamented with gold—'are of no common wood: a princess has sat under the shadow of its bough, and seen her kingdom won and lost; and may the fair one who will now wear it warm it in her bosom till she sees a kingdom, long lost, won as boldly and as bravely as ever the swords of the Selbys won their land!' And throwing the rosary around my neck as he concluded, away he went, opened his pack anew, resuming again his demure look and the arrangement of his trinkets.
"Walter Selby, who all this while—though then a hot and forward youth—had remained mute, addressed me in a whisper: 'Fair Eleanor, mine own giddy cousin, this pedlar—this dispenser of rosaries, made of Queen Mary's yew tree—he, whom the churls call Simon Packpin, is no seeker of profit from vulgar merchandise. I'll wager a kiss of thine own ruddy lips against one of mine, that he carries swords made of good Ripon steel, and pistols of good Swedish iron, in yon horse-pack of his: wilt thou pledge a kiss on this wager, my gentle cousin? And instead of a brain stored with plans for passing an English yard for a Scottish ell, and making pieces of homespun plaiding seem costly works from the looms of Arras or even of Leeds, it is furnished with more perilous stuff, pretty Eleanor; and no man can tell us better how many of the Scottish cavaliers have their feet ready for the stirrup, and on what day they ​will call on the Selbys to mount and strike for their ancient lord and their lost inheritance.' Something of this matter had been passing in my own mind, but the temper of the Selbys ever required more to be repressed than encouraged, and so I endeavoured to manage thee, poor Walter Selby!" She sighed while she named the name of him who had guided and gladdened her youth, and, in a tone low and almost inaudible, she addressed herself to the image which her affections had thus charmed into life: "I saw thee, thou last and thou bravest of all the Selbys, with thy banner spread, thy sword bright, and thy long golden locks waving on thy shoulders, when the barriers of Preston were lost and won, and the gallant laird of Ashiestiel fought like a brother by thy side. Oh, that this last bright picture were all I remembered of thee! But can the heart of woman, though her head be grey, forget that she saw those long locks which made the dames sigh, waving, soiled and bloody, on the gates of Carlisle. There is much done in this world must be answered for in the next, and this cruel and remorseless deed is one." She looked while she spoke as if her wild and agitated fancy had given motion to the picture which she drew of her lover; her face changed, and her eyes, from beneath their moist and depressed lids, became fixed and frozen, like stars in a winter night. This passed away with a smothered groan and a moving of her hand over her bosom: she again resumed her narrative. "'Truly,' said I, 'my froward cousin, thou art the best soldier our poor prince could peril his cause with—thou canst make a pedlar churl into a deep-plodding politician, capable of overturning a throne; and his pack, filled with shreds of lace and remnants of ribbon, into a magazine of weapons fit for furnishing an army. What will thy most wise head make of these dubious sibyl verses which this mysterious politician of thine has been doling out for thy especial instruction?' 'By the rood, my witty Eleanor,' said Walter Selby, 'I shall win a battle, and wed thee in revenge for this. But thinkest thou not that the box, which has endowed that round white neck of thine with a cross and rosary of gold, and wood still more precious, may not contain things equally curious and strange? Some golden information this pedlar—since pedlar thou wilt have him—carries in his looks; I wish I could find the way to extract it.' The stranger, as if guessing by our looks and our whispers what was passing between us, proceeded to ​instruct us in his own singular way: he described the excellent temper of his Sheffield whittles; praised the curious qualities of his spectacles, which might enable the wearer to see distant events; and after soothing over some lines of a psalm or hymn common to the Presbyterians, he proceeded to chant the following ballad, of which I regret the loss of several verses:—
THE PEDLAR'S BALLAD.
It is pleasant to sit on green Saddleback top, And hearken the eagle's cry; It is pleasant to roam in the bonnie greenwood, When the stags go bounding by; And it's merry to sit, when the red wine goes round, 'Mid the poet's sweet song and the minstrel's sweet sound.
It is merry in moonshine to lead down the dance, To go starting away when the string Shakes out its deep sound, and the fair maidens fly Like the sunlight—or birds on the wing; And it's merry at gloaming, aneath the boughs green, To woo a young maiden and roam all unseen.
But it's blither by far when the pennon is spread, And the lordly loud trumpet is pealing, When the bright swords are out, and the war-courser neighs, As high as the top of Helvellyn; And away spurs the warrior, and makes the rocks ring With the blows that he strikes for his country and king.
Our gallants have sprung to their saddles, and bright Are the swords in a thousand hands; I came through Carlisle, and I heard their steeds neigh O'er gentle Eden's sands. And seats shall be emptied, and brands shall be wet, Ere all these gay gallants in London are met.
Lord Maxwell is mounted by winding Nith, Lord Kenmore by silver Dee; The blithe lads spur on from the links of the Orr And Durisdeer's greenwood tree; And the banners which waved when Judea was won Are all given again to the glance of the sun.
The Johnstone is stirring in old Annandale, The Jardine, the Halliday's coming From merry Milkwater and haunted Dryfe bank, And Esk, that shall list at the gloaming The war shout, the yell, and of squadrons the dash, And gleam to the claymore and carabine's flash.
​Then come with the war-horse, the basnet, and sword, And bid the big trumpet awaken; The bright locks that stooped at a fair lady's feet Mid the tempest of war must be shaken. It is pleasant to spur to the battle the steed, And cleave the proud helmet that holds a foe's head.
Thy sword's rusty, Howard; hot Dacre, art thou So cool when the war-horse is bounding? Come Percy, come thou, like a Percy of yore, When the trumpet of England is sounding: And come, gallant Selby—thy name is a name, While a soldier has soul and a minstrel has flame.
And come, too, ye names that are nameless—come mount, And win ye a name in proud story: A thousand long years at the sock and the share Are not worth one moment of glory. Come arm ye, and mount ye, and make the helms ring Of the Whigs, as ye strike for your country and king!
"The whole household of Wilton Hall, including Walter Selby and myself, had gradually gathered around this merchant-minstrel, whose voice, from an ordinary chant, had arisen, as we became interested, into a tone of deep and martial melody. Nor was it the voice alone of the stranger that became changed: his face, which at the commencement of the ballad had a grave and a dubious expression, brightened up with enthusiasm; his frame grew erect, and his eyes gleamed with that fierce light which has been observed in the eyes of the English soldiers on the eve of battle. 'What thinkest thou, pretty Eleanor, of our merchant now?' said Walter Selby. 'I should like to have such a form on my right hand when I try to empty the saddles of the southern horse of some of the boldest Whigs.' 'And I'll pledge thee, young gentleman,' said the pedlar, raising his voice at once from the provincial drawl and obscurity of lowland Scotch into the purest English, 'any vow thou askest of me, to ride on which hand thou wilt, and be to thee as a friend and a brother when the battle is at the hottest; and so I give thee my hand on't.' 'I touch no hand,' said Walter Selby, 'and I vow no vow, either in truce or battle, till I know thy name, if thou art of the lineage of the gentle or the churl. I am a Selby, and the Selbys——' 'The Selbys,' said the stranger, in a tone slow and deliberate, 'are an ancient and a noble race; but this is no time, young gentleman, to scruple precedence of blood. In the fields where I have ​ridden noble deeds have been achieved by common hands, while the gentle and the far-descended have sat apart, nor soiled their swords. I neither say I am of a race churlish nor noble, but my sword is as sharp as other men's, and might do thee a friendly deed were it nigh thee in danger.' 'Now, God help us,' said the dame of Wilton Hall, 'what will old England become? Here's young Wat Selby debating lineage and blood with a packman churl. In good truth, if I had but one drop of gentle blood in my veins, I would wrap him up in his own plaid, and beat him to death with his ellwand, which I'll warrant is a full thumb-breadth short of measure.' I stood looking on Walter Selby and on the stranger; the former standing aloof with a look of haughty determination; and the latter, with an aspect of calm and intrepid resolution, enduring the scoff of the hot-headed youth and the scorn of the vulgar matron.
"It might be now about nine o'clock: the air was balmy and mute, the sky blue and unclouded, and the moon, yet unrisen, had sent as much of her light before her as served, with the innumerable stars, to lighten the earth from the summit of the mountains to the deepest vales. I never looked upon a more lovely night, and gladly turned my face from the idle disputants to the green mountain-side, upon which that forerunner gleam which precedes the moon had begun to scatter its light. While I continued gazing, there appeared a sight on Soutra Fellside, strange, ominous, and obscure to many, at that time, but which was soon after explained in desolation and in blood. I saw all at once a body of horsemen coming swiftly down the steep and impassable side of the mountain, where no earthly horse ever rode. They amounted to many hundreds, and trooped onwards in succession, their helmets gleaming and their drawn swords shining amid the starlight. On beholding this vision I uttered a faint scream, and Walter Selby, who was always less or more than other men, shouted till the mountain echoed: 'Saw ever man so gallant a sight? A thousand steeds and riders on the perpendicular side of old Soutra—see, where they gallop along a linn, where I could hardly fly a hawk! Oh! for a horse with so sure and so swift a foot as these, that I might match me with this elfin chivalry! My wanton brown, which can bound across the Derwent like a bird with me on its back, is but a packhorse to one of these.' Alarm was visible in every face around, ​for we all knew what the apparition foreboded—a lost battle and a ruined cause. I heard my father say that the like sight appeared on Helvellyn-side before the battle of Marston Moor, with this remarkable difference: the leader wore on his head the semblance of a royal crown, whereas the leaders of the troop whom I beheld wore only earls' coronets.
"'Now, his right hand protect us!' said the dame of Wilton Hall. 'What are we doomed to endure?—what will follow this?' 'Misery to many,' answered the pedlar, 'and sudden and early death to some who are present.' 'Cease thy croak, thou northern raven!' said Walter Selby; 'if they are phantoms, let them pass—what care we for men of mist? And if they are flesh and bone, as I guess by their bearing they must surely be, they are good gallant soldiers of our good king, and thus do I bid them welcome with my bugle.' He winded his horn till the mountain echoed far and wide; the spectre horsemen, distant nearly a quarter of a mile, seemed to halt; and the youth had his horn again at his lips to renew the note, when he was interrupted by the pedlar, who, laying his hand on the instrument, said: 'Young gentleman, be wise, and be ruled; yon vision is sent for man's instruction, not for his scoff and his scorn.' The shadowy troop now advanced, and passed toward the south at the distance of a hundred yards. I looked on them as they went, and I imagined I knew the forms of many living men—doomed speedily to perish in the battle field or on the scaffold. I saw the flower of the Jacobite chivalry—the Maxwells, the Gordons, the Boyds, the Drummonds, the Ogilvys, the Camerons, the Scotts, the Foresters, and the Selbys. The havoc which happened among these noble names it is needless to relate: it is written in tale, related in ballad, sung in song; and, deeper still it is written in family feeling and national sympathy. A supernatural light accompanied this pageant, and rendered perfectly visible horse and man: in the rear I saw a form that made me shudder; a form still present to my eye and impressed upon my heart, old and sorrow-worn as it is, as vividly as in early youth. I saw the shape of Walter Selby—his short cloak, his scarlet dress, his hat and feather, his sword by his side; and that smiling glance in his deep dark eye which was never there but for me, and which I could know among the looks of a thousand thousand. ​As he came, he laid his bridle on his horse's neck, and leaned aside, and took at me a long, long look. The youth himself, full of life and gladness beside me, seemed to discover the resemblance between the spectre rider and himself, and it was only by throwing myself in his bosom that I hindered him from addressing the apparition. How long I remained insensible in his arms I know not, but when I recovered I found myself pressed to the youth's bosom, and a gentleman, with several armed attendants, standing beside me—all showing by their looks the deep interest they took in my fate."
Part III
DEATH OF WALTER SELBY.
I rede ye, my lady—I rede ye, my lord, To put not your trust in trumpet and sword: Else the proud name of Selby, which gladdened us long, Shall pass from the land like the sough of a song.
Old Ballad.
Before Dame Eleanor Selby had concluded her account of the Spectre Horsemen of Soutra Fell, the sun had set; and the twilight, warm, silent, and dewy, had succeeded: that pleasant time, between light and dark, in which domestic labour finds a brief remission. The shepherd, returned from hill or moor, spread out his hose, moistened in morass or rivulet, before the hearth fire, which glimmered far and wide, and, taking his accustomed seat, sat mute and motionless as a figure of stone. The cows came lowing homewards from the pasture-hills; others, feeding out of cribs filled with rich moist clover, yielded their milk into a score of pails; while the ewes, folded on the sheltered side of the remote glen, submitted their udders, not without the frequent butt and bleat, to the pressure of maidens' hands. Pastoral verse has not many finer pictures than what it borrows from the shepherd returning from the hill and the shepherdess from the fold, the former with his pipe and ​dogs, and the latter with her pail of reeking milk, each singing with a hearty country freedom of voice, and in their own peculiar way, the loves and the joys of a pastoral life. The home of Randal Rode presented a scene of rough plenty, and abounded in pastoral wealth; the head of the house associated with his domestics, and maintained that authority over their words and conduct which belonged to simpler times; and something of the rustic dignity of the master was observable in his men. His daughter Maude busied herself among the maidens with a meekness and a diligence which had more of the matron than is commonly found in so young a dame. All this escaped not the notice of her old and capricious kinswoman Eleanor Selby; but scenes of homely and domestic joy seemed alien to her heart. The intrusion, too, of the churlish name of Rode among the martial Selbys, never failed to darken the picture which she would have enjoyed had this rustic alloy mixed with the precious metal of any other house. It was her chief delight, since all the males of her name had perished, to chant ballads in their praise, and relate their deeds from the time of the Norman invasion down to their ruin in the last rebellion. Many snatches of these chivalrous ballads are still current on the Border—the debateable land of song as well as of the sword, where minstrels sought their themes, and entered, harp in hand, into rivalry—a kind of contest which the sword, the critic's weapon of those days, was often drawn to decide. Much of this stirring and heroic Border-life mingles with the traditionary tales of Eleanor Selby. Her narratives contain occasionally a vivid presentment of character and action. I shall endeavour to preserve something of this, and retain at the same time their dramatic cast, while I prune and condense the whole, to render them more acceptable to the impatience of modern readers. She thus pursued her story:
"I am now to tell a tale I have related a thousand times to the noble and the low; it is presented to me in my dreams, for the memory of spilt blood clings to a young mind—and the life's-blood of Walter Selby was no common blood to me. The vision of the spectre horsemen, in which human fate was darkly shadowed forth, passed away, and departed too, I am afraid, from the thoughts of those to whom it came as a signal and a warning—as a cloud passes from the face of the summer-moon. Seated on horseback, with Walter Selby ​at my bridle-rein, and before and behind me upwards of a score of armed cavaliers, I had proceeded along the mountain-side about a mile, when a horn was winded at a small distance in our front. We quickened our pace; but the way was rough and difficult, and we were obliged to go a sinuous course, like the meanderings of a brook, round rock and cairn and heathy hill, while the horn, continuing to sound, still seemed as far ahead as when we first heard it. It was about twelve o'clock; and the moon, large and bright and round, gleamed down from the summit of a green pasture mountain, and lighted us on our way through a narrow wooded valley, where a small stream glimmered and sparkled in the light, and ran so crooked a course as compelled us to cross it every hundred yards. Walter Selby now addressed me in his own singular way: 'Fair Eleanor, mine own grave and staid cousin, knowest thou whither thou goest? Comest thou to counsel how fifty men may do the deeds of thousands, and how the crown of this land may be shifted like a prentice's cap?' 'Truly,' said I, 'most sage and considerate cousin, I go with thee like an afflicted damsel of yore, in the belief that thy wisdom and valour may reinstate me in my ancient domains, or else win for me some new and princely inheritance.' 'Thou speakest,' said the youth, 'like one humble in hope, and puttest thy trust in one who would willingly work miracles to oblige thee. But ponder, fair damsel: my sword, though the best blade in Cumberland, cannot cut up into relics five or six regiments of dragoons, nor is this body, though devoted to thee, made of that knight-errant stuff that can resist sword and bullet. So I counsel thee, most discreet coz, to content thyself with hearing the sound of battle afar off, for we go on a journey of no small peril.' To these sensible and considerate words I answered nothing, but rode on, looking, all the while, Walter Selby in the face, and endeavouring to say something witty or wise. He resumed his converse: 'Nay, nay, mine own sweet and gentle cousin—my sweet Eleanor—I am too proud of that troubled glance of thine to say one word more about separation'; and our horses' heads and our cheeks came closer as he spoke. 'That ballad of the pedlar—for pedlar shall the knight be still to oblige thee—his ballad told more truth than I reckoned a minstrel might infuse into verse. All the Border cavaliers of England and Scotland are near us or with us; and now for the game of coronets and ​crowns—a coffin, coz, or an earl's bauble—for we march upon Preston.'
"Prepared as I was for these tidings, I could not hear them without emotion, and I looked on Walter Selby with an eye that was not calculated to inspire acts of heroism. I could not help connecting our present march on Preston with the shadowy procession I had so recently witnessed, and the resemblance which one of the phantoms bore to the youth beside me, pressed on my heart. 'Now do not be afraid of our success, my fair coz,' said he, 'when to all the proud names of the Border—names thou hast long since learned by heart, and rendered musical by repeating them—we add the names of two most wise and prudent persons, who shall hereafter be called the setters-up and pluckers-down of kings; even thy cool and chivalrous cousin, and a certain staid and sedate errant damosel.' This conversation obtained for us the attention of several stranger cavaliers who happened to join us, as, emerging from the woody glen, we entered upon a green and wide moor or common. One of them, with a short cloak and slouched hat and heron's feather, rode up to my right hand, and, glancing his eye on our faces, thus addressed himself to me in a kind-hearted old Scottish style: 'Fair lady, there be sights less to a warrior's liking than so sweet a face beside a wild mountain about the full of the moon. The cause that soils one of these bright tresses in dew must be a cause dear to man's heart; and, fair one, if thou wilt permit me to ride by thy bridle-rein, my presence may restrain sundry flouts and jests which young cavaliers, somewhat scant of grace and courtesy—and there be such in our company—may use, on seeing a lady so fair and so young bowne on such a dangerous and unwonted journey.' I thanked this northern cavalier for his charitable civility, and observed, with a smile: 'I had the protection of a young person who would feel pleased in sharing the responsibility of such a task.' 'And, fair lady,' continued he, 'since Walter Selby is thy protector, my labour will be the less.' My cousin, who during this conversation had ridden silent at my side, seemed to awaken from a reverie, and glancing his eye on the cavalier, and extending his hand, said: 'Sir, in a strange dress, uttering strange words, and busied in a pursuit sordid and vulgar, I knew you not, and repelled your frank courtesy with rude words. I hear you now in no disguised voice, and see you with the sword of honour at your side, ​instead of the pedlar's staff: accept, therefore, my hand, and be assured that a Selby—as hot and as proud as the lordliest of his ancestors—feels honoured in thus touching in friendship the hand of a gallant gentleman.'
"I felt much pleased with this adventure, and looked on the person of the stalwart Borderer as he received and returned the friendly grasp of Walter Selby: he had a brow serene and high, an eye of sedate resolution, and something of an ironic wit lurking amid the wrinkles which age and thought had engraven on his face. I never saw so complete a transformation; and could hardly credit that the bold, martial-looking, and courteous cavalier at my side had but an hour or two before sung rustic songs and chaffered with the peasants of Cumberland about the price of ends of ribbon and twopenny toys and trinkets. He seemed to understand my thoughts, and thus resolved the riddle in a whisper: 'Fair lady, these are not days when a knight of loyal mind may ride with sound of horn and banner displayed, summoning soldiers to fight for the good cause; of a surety, his journey would be brief. In the disguise of a calling—low, it is true, but honourable in its kind—I have obtained more useful intelligence, and enlisted more good soldiers, than some who ride aneath an earl's pennon.'
"Our party, during this nocturnal march, had been insensibly augmented; and when the grey day came I could count about three hundred horsemen—young, well mounted, and well armed—some giving vent to their spirit or their feelings in martial songs, others examining and proving the merits of their swords and pistols, and many marching on in grave silence, forecasting the hazards of war and the glory of success. Leaving the brown pastures of the moorlands, we descended into an open and cultivated country, and soon found ourselves upon the great military road which connects all the north country with the capital. It was still the cold and misty twilight of the morning, when I happened to observe an old man close beside me, mounted on a horse seemingly coeval with himself—wrapped, or rather shrouded, in a grey mantle or plaid, and all the while looking steadfastly at me from under the remains of a broad slouched hat. I had something like a dreamer's recollection of his looks; but he soon added his voice to assist my recollection, and I shall never forget the verses the old man chanted with a broken and melancholy, and I think I may add prophetic, voice:
OH! PRESTON, PROUD PRESTON.
Oh! Preston, proud Preston! come hearken the cry Of spilt blood against thee—it sounds to the sky; Thy richness a prey to the spoiler is doomed, Thy homes to the flame, to be smote and consumed: Thy sage with grey locks, and thy dame with the brown, Descending long tresses and grass-sweeping gown, Shall shriek when there's none for to help them: the hour Of thy fall is not nigh, but it's certain and sure. Proud Preston, come humble thy haughtiness—weep— Cry aloud; for the sword it shall come in thy sleep.
What deed have I done, that thou liftst thus thy cry, Thou bard of ill-omen, and doomst me to die? What deed have I done thus to forfeit the trust In high Heaven, and go to destruction and dust? My matrons are chaste and my daughters are fair; Where the battle is hottest my sword 's shining there; And my sons bow their heads, and are on their knees kneeling, When the prayer is poured forth and the organ is pealing: What harm have I wrought, and to whom offered wrong, That thou comest against me with shout and with song?
What harm hast thou wrought! List and hearken: the hour Of revenge may be late, but it's certain and sure: As the flower to the field and the leaf to the tree, So sure is the time of destruction to thee. What harm hast thou wrought! Haughty Preston, now hear: Thou hast whetted against us the brand and the spear; And thy steeds through our ranks rush, all foaming and hot, And I hear thy horns sound and the knell of thy shot: The seal of stern judgment is fixed on thy fate When the life-blood of Selby is spilt at thy gate.
Oh! Selby, brave Selby, no more thy sword 's braving The foes of thy prince, when thy pennon is waving; The Gordon shall guide and shall rule in the land; The Boyd yet shall battle with buckler and brand; The Maxwells shall live, though diminished their shine, And the Scotts in bard's song shall be all but divine; Even Forster of Derwent shall breathe for a time, Ere his name it has sunk to a sound and a rhyme; But the horn of the Selbys has blown its last blast, And the star of their names from the firmament cast.
"I dropped the bridle from my hand, and all the green expanse of dale and hill grew dim before me. The voice of the old man had for some time ceased before I had courage to look about; and I immediately recognized in the person of the minstrel an old and faithful soldier of my father's, ​whose gift at song, rude and untutored as it was, had obtained him some estimation on the Border, where the strong, lively imagery and familiar diction of the old ballads still maintain their ground against the classic elegance and melody of modern verse. I drew back a little, and, shaking the old man by the hand, said: 'Many years have passed, Harpur Harberson, since I listened to thy minstrel skill at Lanercost; and I thought thou hadst gone, and I should never see thee again. Thy song has lost some of its ancient grace and military glee since thou leftest my father's hall.' ''Deed, my bonnie lady,' said the Borderer with a voice suppressed and melancholy, while something of his ancient smile brightened his face for a moment, 'sangs of sorrow and dule have been rifer with me than ballads of merriment and mirth. It's long now since I rode and fought by my gallant master's side, when the battle waxed fierce and desperate; and my foot is not so firm in the stirrup now, nor my hand sae steeve at the steel, as it was in those blessed and heroic days. It's altered days with Harpur Harberson since he harped afore the nobles of the North in the home of the gallant Selbys, and won the cup of gold. I heard that my bonnie lady and her gallant cousin were on horseback; so I e'en put my old frail body on a frail horse, to follow where I cannot lead. It's pleasant to mount at the sound of the trumpet again; and it's better for an auld man to fall with a sound of battle in his ear, and be buried in the trench with the brave, and the young, and the noble, than beg his bread from door to door, enduring the scoff and scorn of the vulgar and sordid, and be found, some winter morning, streeked stiff and dead on a hassock of straw in some churl's barn. So I shall e'en ride on, and see the last of a noble and a hopeless cause.' He drew his hat over his brow, while I endeavoured to cheer him by describing the numbers, resources, and strength of the party. And I expressed rather my hope than firm belief when I assured him 'there was little doubt that the house of Selby would lift its head again and flourish, and that the grey hairs of its ancient and faithful minstrel would go down in gladness and glory to the grave.' He shook his head, yet seemed almost willing to believe for a moment, against his own presentiment, in the picture of future glory I had drawn. It was but for a moment. ''Deed no—'deed no, my bonnie, bonnie lady, it canna—canna be. Glad ​would I be could I credit the tale that our house would hold up its head again, high and lordly. But I have too strong faith in minstrel prediction, and in the dreams and visions of the night, to give credence to such a pleasant thought. It was not for nought that horsemen rode in ranks on Soutraside last night, where living horseman could never urge a steed, and that the forms and semblances of living men were visible to me in this fearful procession. Nor was it for nought that my grandfather, old minstrel Harberson, caused himself to be carried in his last hour to the summit of Lanercost Hill, that he might die looking on the broad domains of his master. His harp—for his harp and he were never parted—his harp yielded involuntary sounds, and his tongue uttered unwilling words—words of sad import, the fulfilment of which is at hand. I shall repeat you the words: they are known but to few, and have been scorned too much by the noble race of Selby:
I rede ye, my lady—I rede ye, my lord, To put not your trust in the trumpet and sword; To follow no banner that comes from the flood, To march no more southward to battle and blood. League not with Dalzell—no, nor seek to be fording The clear stream of Derwent with Maxwell and Gordon; To a Forester's word draw nor bridle nor glaive; Shun the gates of proud Preston like death and the grave; And the Selbys shall flourish in life and in story, While eagles love Skiddaw and soldiers love glory.
"'These are the words of my ancestor—what must be must. I shall meet thee again at the gates of Preston. As he uttered these words he mingled with the ranks of horsemen under the banner of a Border knight, and I rode up to the side of my cousin and his companion.
"It is not my wish to relate all I heard and describe all I saw on our way southward; but our array was a sight worth seeing, and a sight we shall never see again; for war is now become a trade, and men are trained to battle like hounds to the hunting. In those days the noble and the gentle, each with his own banner, with kinsmen and retainers, came forth to battle; and war seemed more a chivalrous effort than it seems now, when the land commits its fame and its existence to men hired by sound of trumpet and by beat of drum. It was soon broad daylight; all the adherents of the house of Stuart had moved towards Lancashire, from the south of ​Scotland and the north of England, and, forming a junction where the Westmoreland mountains slope down to the vales, now covered the road as far as my eye could reach—not in regular companies, but in clusters and crowds, with colours displayed. There might be, in all, one thousand horsemen and fifteen hundred foot—the former armed with sword and pistol and carbine, the latter with musket and spear. It was a fair sight to see so many gentlemen dressed in the cavalier garb of other days, some with head and bosom pieces of burnished mail, others with slouched hats and feathers and scarlet vests, and all with short cloaks or mantles of velvet or woollen, clasped at the bosom with gold, and embroidered each according to their own or their mistress's fancy. A body of three hundred chosen horsemen, pertaining to my Lord Kenmore, marched in front, singing, according to the fashion of the Scotch, rude and homely ballads in honour of their leader:
Kenmore 's on and awa, Willie, Kenmore 's on and awa; And Kenmore's lord is the gallantest lord That ever Galloway saw.
Success to Kenmore's band, Willie, Success to Kenmore's band; There was never a heart that feared a Whig E'er rode by Kenmore's hand.
There's a rose in Kenmore's cap, Willie, There's a rose in Kenmore's cap; He'll steep it red in ruddy life's blood Afore the battle drap.
"Such were some of the verses by which the rustic minstrels of those days sought to stimulate the valour of their countrymen. One hundred horse, conducted by Lord Nithsdale, succeeded; those of Lord Derwentwater followed: a band numerous, but divided in opinion—unsteady in resolution, and timid in the time of need and peril, like their unfortunate lord. The foot followed: a band of warriors, strange and even savage in their appearance; brave and skilful, and unblenching in battle, with plaid and bonnet and broadsword, bare-kneed, and marching to a kind of wild music, which, by recalling the airs of their ancestors, and the battles in which they fought and bled, kindles a military fury and resolution which destroys all against which ​it is directed. These were men from the mountains of Scotland, and they were led by chieftain Mackintosh, who was to them as a divinity—compared to whom the prince in whose cause they fought was a common being, a mere mortal. I admired the rude, natural courtesy of these people, and lamented the coward counsels which delivered them up to the axe and the cord without striking a single blow. The rear—accounted in this march, with an enemy behind as well as before, a post of some peril—was brought up by about two hundred Border cavaliers and their adherents; and with them rode Walter Selby and his new companion. The command seemed divided among many, and without obeying any one chief in particular, all seemed zealous in the cause, and marched on with a rapidity regulated by the motions of the foot.
"No serious attempt was made to impede us: some random shots were fired from the hedgerows and groves; till at length, after a fatiguing journey, we came within sight of Preston; and there the enemy made his appearance in large masses of cavalry and foot, occupying the distant rising grounds, leaving our entry into the town free and uninterrupted. Something in my face showed the alarm I felt on seeing the numbers and array of our enemies: this passed not unobserved of the cavalier at my side, who said with a smile: 'Fair lady, you are looking on the mercenary bands which sordid wealth has marched against us; these are men bought and sold, and who hire their best blood for a scarlet garb and a groat. I wish I had wealth enough to tempt the avarice of men who measure all that is good on earth by the money it brings. And yet, fair one, I must needs own that our own little band of warriors is brought strangely together and bound by ties of a singular kind. It would make a curious little book were I to write down all the motives and feelings which have put our feet in the stirrup. There's my Lord Kenmore, a hot, a brave, and a self-willed, and the Scotch maidens say a bonnie Gordon: his sword had stuck half-drawn from the scabbard, but for the white hand of his wife; but he that lives under the influence of bright eyes, Lady Eleanor, lives under a spell as powerful as loyalty. And what would the little book say of my Lord Nithsdale, with whom ride so many of the noble name of Maxwell? Can scorn for the continual cant and sordid hearts of some acres of psalm-singing Covenanters, ​who haunt the hill-tops of Terreagles and Dalswinton, cause the good lord to put the fairest domains on the Border in jeopardy? or does he hope to regain all the sway held by his ancestors of yore over the beautiful vale of Nith, humbling into dust, as he arises, the gifted weaver who preaches, the inspired cordwainer who expounds, and the upstart grocer who holds rule—the two former over men's minds, and the latter over men's bodies? There's my Lord Carnwath——'
"At this moment I heard the sounding of trumpets, and the rushing of horses behind us; and ere I could turn round, my cavalier said, in the same equal and pleasant tone in which he was making his curious communication of human character: 'Fair lady, here be strange auditors, some of my friend General Willis's troopers come to try the edges of their new swords. Halbert, lead this fair lady to a place where she may see what passes; and now for the onset, Walter Selby.' The latter, exchanging a glance with me, turned his horse's head; swords were bared in a moment; and I heard the dash of their horses, as they spurred them to the contest, while a Scottish soldier hurried me towards the town. I had not the courage to look back; the clashing of swords, the knelling of carbines, the groans of the wounded, and the battle-shout of the living, came all blended in one terrible sound: my heart died within me.
"I soon came up to the Scottish mountaineers, who, with their swords drawn and their targets shouldered, stood looking back on the contest, uttering shouts of gladness or shrieks of sorrow, as their friends fell or prevailed. I looked about, and saw the skirmish, which at first had only extended to a few blows and shots, becoming bloody and dubious; for the enemy, reinforced with fresh men, now fairly charged down the open road, and the place where they contended was soon covered with dead and dying. I shrieked aloud at this fearful sight; and quitting my horse's bridle, held up my hands, and cried out to the mountaineers: 'Oh! haste and rescue, else they'll slay him! they'll slay him!' An old Highlander, at almost the same instant, exclaimed, in very corrupt English: 'God! she'll no stand and see the Border lads a' cut to pieces!' And, uttering a kind of military yell, flew off with about two hundred men to the assistance of his friends.
"I was not allowed to remain and witness the charge of ​these northern warriors, but was led into Preston, and carried into a house, half-dead, where several of the ladies who followed the fortune of their lords in this unhappy expedition endeavoured to soothe and comfort me. But I soon was the gayest of them all; for in came Walter Selby and his companion, soiled with blood and dust from helmet to spur. I leaped into my cousin's bosom, and sobbed with joy: he kissed my forehead, and said: 'Thank him, my Eleanor—the gallant knight, Sir Thomas Scott; but for him I should have been where many brave fellows are.' I recovered presence of mind in a moment, and turning to him, said: 'Accept, sir, a poor maiden's thanks for the safety of her kinsman, and allow her to kiss the right hand that wrought this deliverance.' 'Bless thee, fair lady,' said the knight, 'I would fight a dozen such fields for the honour thou profferest; but my hand is not in trim for such lady courtesy; so let me kiss thine as a warrior ought.' I held out my hand, which he pressed to his lips; and washing the blood from his hands, removing the soils of battle from his dress, and resuming his mantle, he became the gayest and most cheerful of the company.
"It was evident, from the frequent and earnest consultations of the leaders of this rash enterprise, that information had reached them of no pleasing kind. Couriers continually came and went, and some of the chiefs began to resume their weapons. As the danger pressed, advice and contradiction, which at first were given and urged with courtesy and respect, now became warm and loud; and the Earl of Derwentwater, a virtuous and amiable man, but neither warrior nor leader, instead of overawing and ruling the tumultuary elements of his army, strode to and fro, a perfect picture of indecision and dismay, and uttered not a word.
"All this while Sir Thomas Scott sat beside Walter Selby and me, calm and unconcerned; conversing about our ancient house, relating anecdotes of the lords of Selby in the court and in the camp, quoting, and in his own impressive way of reciting verse lending all the melody of music to, the old minstrel ballads which recorded our name and deeds. In a moment of less alarm I could have worshipped him for this; and my poor Walter seemed the child of his companion's will, and forgot all but me in the admiration with which he contemplated him.
"The conference of the chiefs had waxed warm and ​tumultuous, when Lord Nithsdale, a little high-spirited and intrepid man, shook Sir Thomas by the shoulder, and said: 'This is no time, Sir Knight, for minstrel lore and lady's love; betake thee to thy weapon, and bring all thy wisdom with thee, for truly we are about to need both.' Sir Thomas rose, and having consulted a moment with Lord Kenmore, returned to us and said: 'Come, my young friend, we have played the warrior; now let us play the scout, and go forth and examine the numbers and array of our enemies. Such a list of their generals and major-generals has been laid before our leaders as turns them pale; a mere muster-roll of a regiment would make some of them lay down their arms and stretch out their necks to the axe. Lord Kenmore, fair Eleanor, who takes a lady's counsel now and then, will have the honour of sitting by your side till our return.' So saying, Walter Selby and Sir Thomas left us, and I listened to every step in the porch, till their return, which happened within an hour.
"They came splashed with soil, their dress rent with hedge and brake; and they seemed to have owed their safety to their swords, which were hacked and dyed to the hilts. The leaders questioned them: 'Have you marked the enemy's array and learned aught of their numbers?' 'We have done more,' said Sir Thomas; 'we have learned from the tongues of two dying men that Willis, with nine regiments of horse, and Colonel Preston, with a battalion of foot, will scarcely await for dawn to attack you.' This announcement seemed to strike a damp to the hearts of several of the chiefs, and instead of giving that consistency to their councils which mutual fear often inspires, it only served to bewilder and perplex them. 'I would counsel you,' said Sir Thomas, 'to make an instant attack upon their position before their cannon arrive; I will lead the way. We are inferior in number, but superior in courage. Let some of our Border troopers dismount, and with the clansmen, open a passage through Colonel Preston's troops which line the hedgerows and enclosures; the horse will follow, and there can be no doubt of a complete victory.' Some opposed this advice, others applauded it; and the precious hours of night were consumed in unavailing debate and passionate contradiction.
"This was only interrupted by the sound of the trumpet and the rushing of horse; for Willis, forcing the barriers at ​two places, at once made good his entry into the principal street of Preston. I had the courage to go into the street, and had not proceeded far till I saw the enemy's dragoons charging at the gallop; but their saddles were emptied fast with shot and with sword; for the clansmen, bearing their bucklers over their heads, made great havoc among the horsemen with their claymores, and at length succeeded in repulsing them to the fields. As soon as the enemy's trumpets sounded a retreat, our leaders again assembled—assembled not to conquer or fall like cavaliers, with their swords in their hands, but to yield themselves up, to beg the grace of a few days, till they prepared their necks for the rope and the axe. The Highland soldiers wept with anger and shame, and offered to cut their way or perish; but the leaders of the army, unfit to follow or fight, resolved on nothing but submission, and sent Colonel Oxburgh with a message to General Willis to propose a capitulation.
"Sir Thomas Scott came to Walter Selby and me, and said, with a smile of bitter scorn: 'Let these valiant persons deliver themselves up to strain the cord and prove the axe; we will seek, Lady Eleanor, a gentler dispensation. Retreat now is not without peril; yet let us try what the good greenwood will do for poor outlaws. I have seen ladies, and men too, escape from greater peril than this.'
"We were in the saddle in a moment; and, accompanied by about twenty of the Border cavaliers, made our way through several orchard enclosures, and finally entered upon an extensive common or chase, abounding in clumps of dwarf holly and birch, and presenting green and winding avenues, into one of which we gladly entered, leaving Preston half a mile behind. That pale and trembling light which precedes day began to glimmer; it felt intensely cold, for the air was filled with dew, and the boughs and bushes sprinkled us with moisture. We hastened on at a sharp trot, and the soft sward returning no sound, allowed us to hear the trumpet summons and military din which extended far and wide around Preston.
"As we rode along I observed Sir Thomas motion with his hand to his companions, feel his sword and his pistols, glance to the girths of his horse, and finally drop his mantle from his right arm, apparently baring it for a contest. In all these preparations he was followed by his friends, who at the same time closed their ranks, and ​proceeded with caution and silence. We had reached a kind of road, half the work of Nature and half of man's hand, which divided the chase or waste in two; it was bordered by a natural hedge of holly and thorn. All at once, from a thicket of bushes, a captain, with about thirty of Colonel Preston's dragoons, made a rush upon us, calling out, 'Yield! Down with the traitors!' Swords were bare in a moment, pistols and carbines were flashing, and both parties spurred, alike eager for blood.
"Of this unexpected and fatal contest I have but an indistinct remembrance: the glittering of the helmets, the shining of drawn swords, the flashing of pistols and carbines, the knell of shot, the rushing of horses, and the outcry of wounded men, come all in confusion before me; but I cannot give a regular account of such a scene of terror and blood. It was of brief duration. I laid my bridle on my horse's neck, and wrung my hands, and followed with my looks every motion of Walter Selby. He was in the pride of strength and youth, and spurred against the boldest; and, putting soul and might into every blow, made several saddles empty. I held up my hands, and prayed audibly for success. A dragoon, who had that moment killed a cavalier, rode to my side, and exclaimed: 'Down with thy hands, thou cursed nun—down with thy hands; woot pray yet, woot thou; curse tha, then!' And he made a stroke at me with his sword. The eyes of Walter Selby seemed to lighten as a cloud does on a day of thunder, and at one blow he severed the dragoon's head, bone and helmet, down to his steel collar. As the trooper fell, a pistol and carbine flashed together, and Walter Selby reeled in the saddle, dropped his head and his sword, and saying faintly, 'Oh, Eleanor!' fell to the ground, stretching both hands towards me. I sprang to the ground, clasped him to my bosom, which he covered with his blood, and entreated Heaven to save him; and oh, I doubt I upbraided the Eternal with his death! But Heaven will pity the ravings of despair. He pressed my hand faintly, and lay looking on my face alone, though swords were clashing and pistols were discharged over us.
"Ere the contest had ceased, Sir Thomas sprang from his horse, took Walter Selby in his arms, and tears sparkled in his eyes as he saw the blood flowing from his bosom. 'Alas! alas!' said he, 'that such a spirit, so lofty and ​heroic, should be quenched so soon, and in a skirmish such as this! Haste, Frank—Elliot; haste, and frame us a litter of green boughs; cover it thick with our mantles; place this noble youth upon it, and we will bear him northward on our horses' necks. Ere I leave his body here, I will leave mine own aside it; and you, minstrel Harberson, bring some water from the brook for this fair and fainting lady.'
"All these orders, so promptly given, were as quickly executed; and we recommenced our journey to the north, with sorrowful hearts and diminished numbers. I rode by the side of the litter, which, alas! became a bier, ere we reached the green hills of Cumberland. We halted in a lonely glen; a grave was prepared; and there, without priest, prayer, or requiem, was all that I loved of man consigned to a sylvan grave. 'The dust of our young hero,' said Sir Thomas, 'must lie here till the sun shines again on our cause, and it shall be placed in consecrated earth.' The minstrel of the ancient name of Selby stood gazing on the grave, and burst out into the following wail or burial song, which is still to be heard from the lips of the maids and matrons of Cumberland:
LAMENT FOR WALTER SELBY.
Mourn, all ye noble warriors— Lo! here is lying low As brave a youth as ever Spurred a courser on the foe. Hope is a sweet thing to the heart, And light unto the e'e, But no sweeter and no dearer Than my warrior was to me: He rode a good steed gallantly, And on his foes came down, With a war-cry like the eagle's, From Helvellyn's haughty crown: His hand was wight, and his dark eye Seemed born for wide command; Young Selby has nae left his like In all the northern land.
Weep for him, all ye maidens, And weep for him, all ye dames; He was the sweetest gentleman From silver Tweed to Thames. ​Wail all for Walter Selby, Let your tears come dropping down; Wail all for my young warrior, In cottage, tower, and town. Cursed be the hand that fired the shot, And may it never know What beauty it has blighted, And what glory it laid low! Shall some rude peasant sit and sing How his rude hand could tame Thy pride, my Walter Selby, And the last of all thy name?
And mourn too, all ye minstrels good, And make your harp-strings wail, And pour his worth through every song, His deeds through every tale. His life was brief, but wondrous bright: Awake your minstrel story! Lo! there the noble warrior lies, So give him all his glory. When Skiddaw lays its head as low As now 'tis green and high, And the Solway sea grows to a brook, Now sweeping proudly by; When the soldier scorns the trumpet sound, Nor loves the tempered brand; Then thy name, my Walter Selby,
"But, alas! the form of the lovely and the brave was not permitted to sink silently into dust—it was plucked out of its lonely and obscure grave, displayed on a gibbet, and the head, separated from the body, was placed on the gate of Carlisle. All day I sat looking, in sadness and tears, on this sorrowful sight, and all night I wandered about, wild and distracted, conjuring all men who passed by to win me but one tress of the long bright hair of Walter Selby. Even the rude sentinels were moved by my grief, but no one dared to do a deed so daring and so perilous.
I remember it well—it was on a wild and stormy night, the rain fell fast, the thunder rocked the walls, and the lightnings, flashing far and wide, showed the castle's shattered towers and the river Eden rolling deep in flood. I wrapped my robe about me, and approached the gate. The sentinels, obeying the storm, had sought shelter in the turrets, and no living soul seemed abroad but my own unhappy self. I gazed up to the gate—where, alas! I had often gazed—and I thought I beheld a human form; a flash of lightning passed, ​and I saw it was a living being. It descended and approached me, motioning me back with its hand. I retired in awe, and still the figure followed. I turned suddenly round and said, 'Whether thou comest for evil or for good, farther shall I not go till I know thy errand.'
"'Fair and unhappy lady,' said a voice which I had often heard before, 'I have come, not without peril, from a distant place; for I heard the story of your daily and nightly sorrowings, and I vowed I would not leave a relic of the noble and the brave to gladden the eyes of vulgar men and feast the fowls of heaven. Here, take this tress of thy lover's hair, and mourn over it as thou wilt—men shall look on the morrow for the golden locks of Walter Selby waving on Carlisle gate, and when they see nothing there they shall know that the faithful and the valiant are never without friends. His body has been won and his head removed, and his dust shall mingle with the knightly and the far-descended, even as I vowed when we laid him in his early grave.' With these words Sir Thomas Scott departed, and I placed the ringlet in my bosom, from which it shall never be separated."
Such was the story of Eleanor Selby. In a later day some unknown Scottish minstrel heard the uncertain and varying tradition, and, with a minstrel's licence, wove it into verse, suppressing the name of Selby and giving the whole a colour and character most vehemently Scottish. A northern lady is made to sing the following rude and simple lament
CARLISLE YETTS.
White was the rose in my love's hat While he rowed me in his Lowland plaidie, His heart was true as death in love, His hand was aye in battle ready; His lang, lang hair in yellow hanks Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddy, But now it waves o'er Carlisle yetts In dripping ringlets soiled and bloody.
When I came first through fair Carlisle 'Ne'er was a town sae gladsome seeming, The white rose flaunted o'er the wall, The thistled pennons far were streaming. When I came next through fair Carlisle, Oh! sad, sad seemed the town, and eerie, The old men sobbed, and grey dames wept, "O lady! come ye to seek your dearie?"
​I tarried on a heathery hill, My tresses to my cheeks were frozen, And far adown the midnight wind I heard the din of battle closing. The grey day dawned, where 'mang the snow Lay many a young and gallant fellow, But the sun came visiting in vain Two lovely een 'tween locks of yellow.
There's a tress of soiled and yellow hair Close in my bosom I am keeping: Oh! I have done with delight and love, So welcome want, and woe, and weeping. Woe, woe upon that cruel heart, Woe, woe upon that hand so bloody, That lordless leaves my true love's hall,