THE WYFE OF AUCHTERMUCHTIE.

[This poem (as Lord Hailes remarks) is" a favourite among the Scots." It affords a very good specimen of the native and rustic humour with which our grave forefathers loved to relax the usual austerity of their deportment. It has been well preserved both by writing and tradition. In Fife and some other parts of the country, it is still current as a popular ballad; and it has been twice edited from the Bannatyne MS., first by Allan Ramsay in his evergreen, and afterwards by Lord Hailes. The former published it, according to his usual practice, with additions and alterations of his own; the latter adhered correctly to his original. The present edition is taken from the same MS. but collated with another, and apparently, an older copy, in the Advocates' Library, from which several alterations, and the whole of the 11th stanza, have been supplied.]

1

IN Auchtermuchtie thair wond ane man,
A rach husband, as I hard tauld,
Quha weill could tippill out a can,
And naither luvit hungir nor cauld:
Quhill ance it fell upon a day,
He yokkit his pleuch vpon the plaine;
Gif it be true, as I heard say,
The day was foull for wind and raine.

2

He lousit the pleuch at the landis end,
And draife his oxin hame at evin;
Quhen he cam in he lukit ben,
And saw the wif baith dry and clene
Sittand at ane fyre beik and bauld,
With ane fat sowp, as I hard say:
The man being verry weit and cauld,
Betwein thay twa it was na play.

3

Quoth he, Quhair is my horsis corne?
My ox hes naithir hay nor stray;
Dame, ye maun to the pleuch the morn,
I sall be hussy, gif 1 may.
Gudeman, quoth scho, content am I
To take the pleuch my day about,
Sa ye will rewll baith calvis and ky,
And all the house baith in and out.

4

But sen that ye will hussyskep ken, First ye maun sift and syne maun kned; And ay as ye gang but and ben, • Luk that the bairnis fyle not the bed; And ay as ye gang furth and in, Keip weill the gaizlines fra the gled; And lay ane saft wysp to the kill; We haif ane deir ferme on our heid.

5

The wyfe shco sat vp late at evin, (I pray God gif hir evill to fare), Scho kirnd the kirne, and skumd it clene,

And left the gudeman but the bledoch baire :

Than in the morning vp scho gat,

- And on hir hairt laid hir disjune.

The de'il cut aff thair hands, quo he,
That filld yow all sa fou yestrein.
He traillit the foull sheetis down the gait,
Thocht to haif wascht thame on ane stane;
The burne was risin grit of spait,
Away fra him the sheetis hes tane.

14

Than up he gat on ane know head,
On the gudewyfe to cry and schout;
Scho hard him as she hard him nocht,
But stoutlie steird the stottis about.
Scho draif the day unto the nicht,
Scho lowsit the pleuch and syne cam hame;
Scho fand all wrang that sould bene richt,
I trow the man thocht richt grit schame.

we less surprised to finde them so peaceable and submissive. At Stirling and about it, our Highlanders were somewhat disorderly in their quarters, particularly by raising fire in two or three places. Vpon our way hither such of them as went with us took their free quarters liberally; and the rest who took another way to Kilpatrick, have been yet ruder in killing sheep and other cattel, and also in robing any loose thing they found in their way. We are now all quartered in and about this town, the Highlanders only in free quarters. It would be truely a pleasant sight, were it at an ordinary weaponshaw, to see this Highland crew. You know the fashion of

15

Gin I war twentie dayis gudewyfe,

For trewlie I sall neir accept it;

Quoth he, Feind fall tha lyaris face,

Bot yit ye may be blyth to gett it.

16

Than up scho gat ane meikle rung,
And the gudeman maid to the doir;
Quoth he, Deme, I sall hald my tung,
For an we fecht I'll gett the waur.
Quoth he, quhan I forsuik my pleuch,
I trow I bot forsuik my seill,
Sa I will to my pleuch agane,

For this house and I will nevir do weill.

ACCOUNT OF THE HIGHLAND HOST.

[In the beginning of the year 1678, (about eighteen months before the breaking out of the memorable insurrection which led to the battles of Drumclog and BothwellBridge), ten thousand Highlanders were brought down from their mountains and quartered upon the Western Counties, for the purpose of suppressing the field meetings and conventicles of the presbyterians. This Highland Host, as it was called, after committing many disorders, and, eating up' the disaffected, was ordered home again by the government, the undisciplined Gael being found too ignorant and rapacious to observe on all occasions the proper distinction between the loyal and lovable' supporters of prelacy, and the contumacious and uncourtly covenanters. The following account is extracted from the Woodrow

MSS. in the Advocates' Library: It appears to have been written by an eye-witness, but has no signature.

"A Copie of a Letter from the Host about Glasgow.

We arrived here about 8 or 9 dayes agoe: At our first coming we observed that the countrey had been much terrified with the report of it, and therefore had carried and conveyed away much of their goods; nor were

them had breaches, yet hose and shoes are their greatest need and most clever prey, and they spare not to take them every where: In so much that the committee here, and the councel with you (as it is said) have ordered some thousands of pairs of shoes to be made to stanch this great spoil. As for their armes and other militaire accoutrements, it is not possible for me to describe them in writing; here you may see head pieces and steel-bonnets raised like pyramides, and such as a man would affirme, they had only found in chamber boxes; targets and shields of the most odde and anticque forme, and pouder hornes hung in strings, garnished with beaten nails and plates of burnished brass. And truely I doubt not but a man, curious in our antiquities, might in this host finde explications of the strange pieces of armour mentioned in our old lawes, such as bosnet, iron-hat, gorget, pesane, wambrassers and reerbrassers, panns, legsplents, and the like, above what any occasion in the lowlands would have afforded for several hundreds of yeers. Among their ensigns also, beside other singularities, the Glencow men were very remarkable, who had for their ensigne a faire bush of heath, wel spred and displayed on the head of a staff, such as might have affrighted a Roman eagle. But, sir, the pleasant ness of this shew is indeed sadly mixed and marred; for this unhallowed, and many of them unchristened, rahble, beside their free quarters, wherein they kill and destroy bestial at their pleasure, without regaird to the commands of some of their discreeter officers, rob all that comes to hand, whi

ther in houses or in the highwayes; so that no man maye passe saifly from house to house; and their insolencie in the houses where they are quartered fills poor women and children with terror, and both men and women with great vexation. They make also excursions in tens and twelves upon other places, and specially under cloud of night, and break into houses with bended pistols and naked swords, cursing and swearing that they shall burne and kill if all be not readily given that they demand. I hear not yet of any killed by them, but severals are grievously wounded and beaten; and in effect, the poor people's lives, goods, and chastities, are exposed to the cruelty of these strange locusts. Many of the countrey people have left and abandoned their houses and all to their mercy. The other day I heard, that, at the burying of a child, the burial company was assaulted by some of these ruffians; and, after a great scuffle, the mortcloth was robbed off the coffine, and that notwithstanding all that their officers could do to hinder or recover it. They tell me also, that some of these savages, not knowing what the coffine meaned, as being a thing with them not usual, would have broken it open and searched it, if not restrained by their neighbours. In some places they beginne to exact money over and above their victuals, and also to make the people pay for dry quarters (that is, for men that they have not), and for assistant quarters (that is, where they contract and make the places they leave free pay in money, and yet the places that they lye upon do really maintain all.) I am furder told, that evil company is like to corrupt good manners; and that even many of the militia forces and Perthshire gentlemen beginne to take free quarters. But it is like that a little more time with our march westward will furnish much more matter of this kind; for the marches are indeed the sorest and most afflicting to the poor people, seeing that partly for the service, partly under pretence thereof, horses are forced, and many of them not restored; as likewise there is little order kept in the march, but they run out and spread themselves over the countrey and catch all that they can lay hold upon; for in these occasions, whatever thing they can get is clear prey, without any fear of recovery. And yet all these are

said to be but whips, wherewith this country is scourged, in respect of the scorpions intended for Ayrshire; and some of the committee being spoke to about the abuse of free quarters, said, that the quarters now taken were but transient quarters, but after the returns made about the Band, there would be destructive quarters ordered against its refuisers. Yet I would not have you think that all those Highlanders behave after the same manner. No, there is a difference both among the men and leaders. And the M. of Athol's men are generally commended both as the best appointed and best behaved. Neither do I hear of any great hurt as yet done by the E. of Murray's men in Cathcart parish: but all of them take free quarters, and that at their own discretion. The standing forces have hitherto carried pretty regularly, and appear very ready on all occasions to restraine and correct the Highlanders' insolencies, of which I could give you several instances; but when these men, who were lately this people's only persecutors, are now commended by them for sobrietie, and in effect are looked on by many of them as their guardians and protectors, you may easily judge what is the others' deportment. Feb. 1, 1678.

(Woodrow MSS. 4to. vol. xcix. 29.)

THE DESOLATE VILLAGE.

A Reverie.

SWEET Village! on thy pastoral hill
Arrayed in sunlight sad and still,
As if beneath the harvest-moon,
Thy noiseless homes were sleeping!
It is the merry month of June,
And creatures all of air and earth
Should now their holiday of mirth
With dance and song be keeping.
But, loveliest Village! silent Thou,

All nature sinks opprest,-
And labour shuts his weary eye
In the mid-day hour of rest.
Yet let the soul think what it will,
Most dirge-like mourns that moorland rill !
How different once its flow!

When with a dreamy motion gliding
Mid its green fields in love abiding,
Or leaping o'er the mossy linn,
And sporting with its own wild din,
Seemed water changed to snow.
Beauty lies spread before my sight,

When light is faintly breaking,

And all the scene appears

And Midnight's voice afar is lost,

Like the wailing of a wearied ghost,

The shades of earth forsaking.

'Tis not the Day to Scotia dear,
A summer Sabbath mild and clear !
Yet from her solemn burial-ground
The small Kirk-Steeple looks around,
Enshrouded in a calm

Profound as fills the house of prayer,
E'er from the band of virgins fair
Is breathed the choral psalm.
A sight so steeped in perfect rest
Is slumbering not on nature's breast
In the smiles of earthly day!
'Tis a picture floating down the sky,
By fancy framed in years gone by,
And mellowing in decay !

That thought is gone! - the Village still
With deepening quiet crowns the hill,
Its low green roofs are there!
In soft material beauty beaming,
As in the silent hour of dreaming
They hung embowered in air!

Is this the Day when to the mountains
The happy shepherds go,

And bathe in sparkling pools and fountains
Their flocks made white as snow ?

Hath gentle girl and gamesome boy,
With meek-eyed mirth or shouting joy,
Gone tripping up the brae ?

Till far behind their town doth stand,
Like an image in sweet Fairy Land,
When the Elves have flown away!
-O sure if aught of human breath
Within these walls remain,

Thus deepening in the hush of death,
'Tis but some melancholy crone,
Who sits with solemn eyes
Beside the cradle all alone,
And lulls the infant with a strain
Of Scotia's ancient melodies.

What if these homes be filled with life?
'Tis the sultry month of June,
And when the cloudless sun rides high
Above the glittering air of noon,

Like a church-yard when a friend is dying,
In more than earthly stillness lying,
And glimmering through our tears!

Sweet Woodburn! like a cloud that name
Comes floating o'er my soul!
Although thy beauty still survive,
beauty
One look hath changed the whole.
The gayest village illage of the gay
Beside thy own sweet river,
Wert Thou on Week or Sabbath day !
So bathed in the blue light of joy,
As if no trouble could destroy
Peace doomed to last for ever.
Now in the shadow of thy trees,
On a green plat, sacred to thy breeze,
The fell Plague-Spirit grimly lies
And broods, as in despite
Of uncomplaining lifelessness,
On the troops of silent shades that press
Into the church-yard's cold recess,
From that region of delight.

Last summer, from the school-house door,
When the glad play-bell was ringing,

What shoals of bright-haired elves would

pour,

Like small waves racing on the shore,
In dance of rapture singing!
Oft by yon little silver well,
Now sleeping in neglected cell,
The village-maid would stand,
While resting on the mossy bank,
With freshened soul the traveller drank
The cold cup from her hand;
Haply some soldier from the war,
Who would remember long and far
That Lily of the Land.

And still the green is bright with flowers,
And dancing through the sunny hours,
Like blossoms from enchanted bowers
On a sudden wafted by,
Obedient to the changeful air,
And proudly feeling they are fair,
Glide bird and butterfly.
But where is the tiny hunter-rout
That revelled on with dance and shout
Against their airy prey?

Alas! the fearless linnet sings,
And the bright insect folds its wings
Upon the dewy flower that springs
Above these children's clay.
And if to yon deserted well

Some solitary maid,

As she was wont at eve, should go-
There silent as her shade

She stands a while then sad and slow
Walks home, afraid to think

Of many a loudly-laughing ring
That dipped their pitchers in that spring,
And lingered round its brink.

On-on-through woful images
My spirit holds her way!
Death in each drooping flower she sees :
And oft the momentary breeze
Is singing of decay.

-So high upon the slender bough
Why hangs the crow her nest ?
All undisturbed her young have lain
This spring-time in their nest;
Nor as they flew on tender wing
E'er fear'd the cross-bow or the sling.
Tame as the purpling turtle-dove,
That walks serene in human love,
The magpie hops from door to door ;
And the hare, not fearing to be seen,
Doth gambol on the village green
As on the lonely moor.

The few sheep wandering by the brook
Have all a dim neglected look,
Oft bleating in their dumb distress
On her their sweet dead shepherdess.
The horses pasturing through the range
Of gateless fields, all common now,
Free from the yoke enjoy the change,
To them a long long Sabbath-sleep!
Then gathering in one thunderous band,
Across the wild they sweep,

Tossing the long hair from their eyes-
Till far the living whirlwind flies
As o'er the desart sand.

From human let their course is free-
No lonely angler down the lea
Invites the zephyr's breath-
And the beggar far away doth roam,
Preferring in his hovel-home

His penury to death.

On that green hedge a scattered row
Now weather-stained once white as snow-
Of garments that have long been spread,
And now belong unto the dead,
Shroud-like proclaim to every eye,

"This is no place for Charity!"

O blest are ye! unthinking creatures!
Rejoicing in your lowly natures
Ye dance round human tombs!
Where gladlier sings the mountain lark
Than o'er the church-yard dim and dark !
Or where, than on the churchyard wall,
From the wild rose-tree brighter fall
Her transitory blooms!
What is it to that lovely sky
If all her worshippers should die!
As happily her splendours play

On the grave where human forms decay,

As o'er the dewy turf of Morn,
Where the virgin, like a woodland Fa
On wings of joy was borne.
-Even now a soft and silvery haze
Hill-Village-Tree-is steeping
In the loveliness of happier days,
Ere rose the voice of weeping!
When incense-fires from every hearth
To heaven stole beautiful from earth.

Sweet Spire! that crown'st the house of God! To thee my spirit turns,

While through a cloud the softened light
On thy yellow dial burns.

Ah, me! my bosom inly bleeds
To see the deep-worn path that leads
Unto that open gate!

In silent blackness it doth tell
How oft thy little sullen bell
Hath o'er the village toll'd its knell,
In beauty desolate.

Oft, wandering by myself at night,
Such spire hath risen in softened light
Before my gladdened eyes,-
And as I looked around to see
The village sleeping quietly
Beneath the quiet skies,-
Methought that mid her stars so bright,
The moon in placid mirth,
Was not in heaven a holier sight
Than God's house on the earth.
Sweet image! transient in my soul!
That very bell hath ceased to toll
When the grave receives its dead-
And the last time it slowly swung,
'Twas by a dying stripling rung
O'er the sexton's hoary head!
All silent now from cot or hall
Comes forth the sable funeral !
The Pastor is not there!

For yon sweet Manse now empty stands,
Nor in its walls will holier hands
Be e'er held up in prayer.

ITALY.

*

Ν.