John Gay, the old English poet, writes in his
Spell:
"Hobnelia, seated in a
dreary vale,
In pensive mood
rehearsed her piteous tale;
Her
piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan,
And pining Echo answers groan for groan.
I rue the day, a rueful day I trow,
The woeful day, a day indeed of
woe!
[Pg 174] When Lubberkin to
town his cattle drove,
A maiden fine
bedight he kept in love;
The maiden
fine bedight his love retains,
And
for the village he forsakes the plains.
Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear,
Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my
care.
With my sharp heel I three
times mark the ground,
And turn me
thrice around, around, around.
When
first the year I heard the cuckoo sing,
And call with welcome note the budding spring,
I straightway set a-running with such
haste,
Deb'rah that won the smock
scarce ran so fast;
Till, spent for
lack of breath, quite weary grown,
Upon a rising bank I sat adown,
Then doff'd my shoe, and, by my troth, I swear,
Therein I spy'd this yellow frizzled
hair,
As like to Lubberkin's in curle
and hue,
As if upon his comely pate
it grew.
With my sharp heel I three
times mark the ground,
And turn me
thrice around, around, around.
At eve
last summer no sleep I sought,
But to
the field a bag of hempseed brought,
I scattered round the seed on every side,
And three times in a trembling accent
cry'd:
This hempseed with my virgin
hand I sow,
Who shall my true love
be, the crop shall mow.
I straight
look'd back, and if my eyes speak true,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around,
around, around.
Last Valentine, the
day when birds of kind
Their
paramours with mutual chirping find,
I early rose, just at the break of day,
Before the sun had chas'd the stars
away;
Afield I went, amid the morning
dew,
To milk my kine (for so should
housewives do).
The first I spy'd,
and the first swain we see,
In spite
of fortune shall our true love be;
See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take,
And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear
forsake?
With my sharp heel I three
times mark the ground,
And turn me
thrice around, around, around.
Last
May-day fair I searched to find a snail
That might my secret lover's name
reveal;
[Pg 175] Upon a gooseberry
bush a snail I found,
For always
snails nearest sweetest fruit abound.
I seiz'd the vermin, home I quickly sped,
And on the hearth the milk-white embers
spread.
Slow crawl'd the snail, and,
if I right can spell,
In the soft
ashes mark'd a curious L:
O may this
wonderous omen luck prove!
For L is
found in Lubberkin and love.
With my
sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Two hazel nuts I threw into the
flame,
And to each nut I gave a
sweetheart's name,
This with the
loudest bounce me sore amaz'd,
That
in a flame of brightest colour blaz'd.
As blaz'd the nut, so may thy passion grow,
For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly
glow.
With my sharp heel I three
times mark the ground,
And turn me
thrice around, around, around.
As
pea-cods once I pluck'd, I chanc'd to see
One that was closely fill'd with three times
three,
Which, when I crop't, I safely
home convey'd,
And o'er the door the
spell in secret laid,
My wheel I
turn'd, and sung a ballad new,
While
from the spindle I the fleeces drew;
The latch mov'd up, when who should first come
in,
But in his proper
person—Lubberkin.
I broke my
yarn, surpris'd the sight to see,
Sure sign that he would break his word with me.
Eftsoons I joined it with my wonted
slight,
So may his love again with
mine unite.
With my sharp heel I
three times mark the ground,
And turn
me thrice around, around, around.
This lady-fly I take from off the grass,
Whose spotted back might scarlet red
surpass.
Fly, lady-bird, north,
south, or east, or west,
Fly where
the man is found that I love best.
He
leaves my hand; see, to the west he's flown,
To call my true love from the faithless
town.
With my sharp heel I three
times mark the ground,
And turn me
thrice around, around, around.
I pare
my pippin round and round again,
My
shepherd's name to flourish on the plain,
I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Upon the grass a perfect L I
read;
[Pg 176] Yet on my heart a
fairer L is seen
Than what the paring
marks upon the green.
With my sharp
heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
This pippin shall another trial make,
See from the core two kernels brown I
take;
This on my cheek for Lubberkin
is worn,
And Boobyclod on t' other
side is borne.
But Boobyclod soon
drops upon the ground,
A certain
token that his love's unsound,
While
Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last;
O were his lips to mine but joined so fast!
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around,
around, around.
As Lubberkin once
slept beneath a tree,
I twitch'd his
dangling garter from his knee;
He
wist not when the hempen string I drew.
Now mine I quickly doff of inkle blue;
Together fast I tye the garters
twain,
And while I knit the knot,
repeat the strain:
Three times a
true-love's knot I tye secure,
Firm
be the knot, firm may his love endure.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around,
around.
As I was wont, I trudged last
market day
To town with new-laid eggs
preserved in hay.
I made my market
long before 'twas night,
My purse
grew heavy, and my basket light.
Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went,
And in love powder all my money
spent;
Behap what will, next Sunday,
after prayers,
When to the ale-house
Lubberkin repairs,
The golden charm
into his mug I'll throw,
And soon the
swain with fervent love shall glow.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around,
around.
But hold: our Lightfoot barks
and cocks his ears,
O'er yonder stile
see Lubberkin appears.
He comes, he
comes, Hobnelia's not bewray'd,
Nor
shall she, crown'd with willow, die a maid.
He vows, he swears he'll give me a green
gown;
O dear! I fall adown, adown,
adown.
[Pg
177]Gay also writes:
"Last Friday's eve, when, as
the sun was set,
I, near yon stile,
three sallow gipsies met,
Upon my
hand they cast a poring look,
Bid me
beware, and thrice their heads they shook;
They said that many crosses I must
prove,
Some in my worldly gain, but
most in love.
Next morn I missed
three hens and our old cock,
And off
the hedge two pinners and a smock.
I
bore these losses with a Christian mind,
And no mishap could feel while thou wert kind;
But since, alas! I grew my Colin's
scorn,
I've known no pleasure, night,
or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye
gipsies, bring him home again,
And to
a constant lass give back her swain.
Have I not sat with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only
light,
When every creature did in
slumber lie,
Besides our cat, my
Colin Clout, and I?
No troublous
thoughts the cat or Colin move,
While
I alone am kept awake by love.
Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake
I bought the costly present for thy
sake:
Could thou spell o'er the posy
on thy knife,
And with another change
thy state of life?
If thou forget'st,
I wot I can repeat,
My memory can
tell the verse so sweet:
'As this is
grav'd upon this knife of thine,
So
is thy image on this heart of mine.'
But woe is me! such presents luckless prove,
For knives, they tell me, always sever
love."
In the story of Isabella, by Boccaccio, there are
touching incidents of the apparition of a deceased lover
appearing to his mistress. The tale is thus rendered by
Keats:
"It was a vision. In the
drowsy gloom,
The dull of midnight,
at her couch's foot
Lorenzo stood and
wept: the forest tomb
Had marr'd his
glossy hair, which once could shoot
Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom
Upon his lips, and taken the soft
lute
[Pg 178] From his lorn
voice, and passt his loomed ears
Had
made a miry channel for his tears.
Strange sound it was, when
the pale shadow spoke;
For there was
striving in its piteous tongue,
To
speak as when on earth it was awake,
And Isabella on its music hung:
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,
As in a palsied Druid's harp
unstrung;
And through it moaned a
ghostly under-song,
Like hoarse night
gusts sepulchral biers among.
Its eyes, though wild, were
still all dewy bright
With love, and
kept all phantom fear aloof
From the
poor girl by magic of their bright,
The while it did unthread the horrid woof
Of the late darkened time—the murd'rous
spite
Of pride and avarice—the
dark pine roof
In the
forest—and the sodden turfed dell,
When, without any word, from stabs it fell.
Saying moreover, 'Isabel, my
sweet!
Red whortle-berries droop
above my head,
And a large
flint-stone weighs upon my feet,
Around me beeches and high chesnuts shed
Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold
bleat
Comes from beyond the river to
my bed:
Go shed one tear upon my
heather-bloom,
And it shall comfort
me within the tomb.
'I am a shadow now, alas!
alas!
Upon the skirts of human nature
dwelling
Alone: I chaunt alone the
holy mass,
While little sounds of
life around me knelling,
And glossy
bees at noon do fieldward pass,
And
many a chapel bell the hour is telling,
Paining me through: these sounds grow strange to
me,
And thou art distant in
humanity.'"
Let us now see what Burns, the never-to-be-forgotten Scottish
poet, says in his Address to the Deil and Tam o'
Shanter. In his own felicitous way he brings out the belief
the ancient inhabitants had of visible devils,
water-kelpies,[Pg 179] spunkies, witches, charms, spells,
and many other forms of superstition.
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.
"O thou! whatever title suit
thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or
Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an'
sootie,
Closed under
hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane
cootie,
To scaud poor
wretches.
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a
wee,
An' let poor damned bodies
be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can
gie,
E'en to a deil,
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel?
Great is thy pow'r, and
great thy fame;
Far kend and noted is
thy name:
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's
thy hame,
Thou travels
far;
An' faith! thou's neither lag
nor lame,
Nor blate nor
scaur.
Whyles ranging like a
roarin' lion
For prey, a' holes and
corners tryin';
Whyles on the
strong-winged tempest flyin',
Tirling
the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom
pryin',
Unseen thou
lurks.
I've heard my reverend
grannie say,
In lanely glens you like
to stray;
Or where auld ruined
castles grey
Nod to the
moon,
Ye fright the nightly
wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch
croon.
When twilight did my grannie
summon
To say her prayers, douce
honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she's
heard you bummin'
Wi' eerie
drone;
Or, rustlin', thro' the
boortrees comin',
Wi' heavy
groan.
[Pg 180] Ae dreary, windy,
winter night,
The stars shot down wi'
sklentin' light,
Wi' you, mysel', I
got a fright,
Ayont the
lough;
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in
sight,
Wi' waving
sough.
The cudgel in my nieve did
shake,
Each bristled hair stood like
a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stour,
quaick—quaick—
Amang the
springs,
Awa ye squatter'd like a
drake,
On whistling
wings.
Let warlocks grim, and
wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you on
ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs,
and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked
speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their
leagues
Owre howkit
dead.
Thence countra wives, wi'
toil an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge
the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow
treasure's ta'en
By witching
skill;
An' dawtet, twal-pint Hawkie's
gaen
As yell's the
bill.
Then mystic knots mak great
abuse,
On young guidman, fond, keen,
and crouse,
When the best wark-lume
i' the house,
By cantrip
wit,
Is instant made no worth a
louse,
Just at the
bit.
When thaws dissolve the
snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin'
icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt
the foord,
By your
direction,
An' 'nighted trav'llers
are allured
To their
destruction.
An' aft your moss-traversing
spunkies
Decoy the wight that late
and drunk is;
The bleezin', curst,
mischievous monkeys
Delude his
eyes,
Till in some miry slough he
sunk is,
Ne'er mair to
rise.
[Pg 181] When masons'
mystic word an' grip
In storms an'
tempests raise you up,
Some cock or
cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange
to tell,
The youngest brother ye wad
whip
Aff straught to
hell!
Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie
yaird,
When youthfu' lovers first
were pair'd,
An' a' the soul of love
they shared,
The raptured
hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flowery
swaird
In shady
bower!
Then you, ye auld,
sneck-drawing dog!
Ye came to
Paradise incog.,
An' played on
man a cursèd brogue,
(Black be
your fa'!)
An' gied the infant world
a shog,
'Maist ruined
a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in
a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds and reestit
gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie
phiz
'Mang better folk,
An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him in your
thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an'
hall,
While scabs and blotches did
him gall
Wi' bitter claw,
An' lowsed his ill-tongued wicked
scaw,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to
rehearse,
Your wily snares an'
fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day
Michael did you pierce,
Down to this
time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or
Erse,
In prose or
rhyme.
An' now, auld Cloots, I ken
ye're thinkin'
A certain Bardie's
rantin', drinkin',
Some luckless hour
will send him linkin'
To your black
pit;
But faith, he'll turn a corner,
jinkin',
And cheat you
yet.
[Pg 182] But, fare ye
weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a
thought and men'!
Ye aiblins
might—I dinna ken—
Still
hae a stake—
I'm wae to think
upon yon den,
Even for your
sake!"
TAM O' SHANTER.
"When chapman billies leave
the street,
And drouthy neebors,
neebors meet,
As market days are
wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak
the gate;
While we sit bousing at the
nappy,
An' gettin' fou an' unco
happy,
We think na on the lang Scots
miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, an'
styles,
That lie between us and our
hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen
dame,
Gathering her brows like
gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to
keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam
o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night
did canter;
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a
toun surpasses,
For honest men and
bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been
sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife
Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel
thou was a skellum,
A blethering,
blustering, drunken blellum;
That
frae November till October
Ae
market-day thou was na sober;
That
ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat
as lang as thou had siller;
That
ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The
smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L—d's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till
Monday.
She prophesy'd that, late or
soon,
Thou would be found deep
drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi'
warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's
auld haunted kirk.
[Pg 183] Ah, gentle dames!
it gars me greet,
To think how mony
counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd
sage advices,
The husband frae the
wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market
night
Tam had got planted unco
right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing
finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank
divinely:
And at his elbow, Souter
Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy
crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera
brither;
They had been fou for weeks
thegither.
The night drave on wi'
sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale
was growing better:
The landlady and
Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours,
secret, sweet, and precious;
The
souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and
rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a
whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae
happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the
nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades o'
treasure,
The minutes wing'd their
way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest,
but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the
ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like
poppies spread—
You seize the
flow'r, its bloom is shed!
Or like
the snow-fall in the river,
A moment
white—then melts for ever;
Or
like the borealis race,
That flit ere
you can point their place;
Or like
the rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishing
amid the storm.—
Nae man can
tether time nor tide:
The hour
approaches Tam maun ride—
That
hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast
in,
And sic a night he taks the road
in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad
in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn
its last;
The rattlin' showers rose
on the blast:
[Pg 184] The speedy
gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud,
deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd;
That night a child might understand
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey
mare, Meg—
A better never
lifted leg—
Tam skelpit on
through dub and mire,
Despising wind,
and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding
fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles
crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly
cry.
By this time he was 'cross
the foord,
Whare in the snaw the
chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks
and meikle stane,
Whare drucken
Charlie brak's neck bane;
And thro'
the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare
hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And
near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare
Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.—
Before him Doon pours all his floods!
The doubling storm roars thro' the
woods;
The lightnings flash from pole
to pole;
Near and more near the
thunders roll;
When glimmering thro'
the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway
seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore
the beams were glancing,
And loud
resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John
Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst
make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny we fear
nae evil;
Wi' usquebae we'll face the
devil.—
The swats sae ream'd in
Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared
na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood
right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the
heel and hand admonish'd,
She
ventured forward on the light;
And,
wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks
and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillon
brent new frae France,
[Pg 185] But
hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and
large,
To gie them music was his
charge:
He screw'd his pipes and gart
them skirl
Till roof and rafters a'
did dirl.
Coffins stood round like
open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in
their last dresses;
And by some
devilish cantrip sleight,
Each in its
cauld hand held a light,
By which
heroic Tam was able
To note upon the
haly table,
A murderer's banes in
gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee
unchristen'd bairns,
A thief, new
cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp
his gab did gape:
Five tomahawks, wi'
blude red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi'
murder crusted;
A garter which a babe
had strangled;
A knife a father's
throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son
o' life bereft,
The grey hairs yet
stack to the heft
Wi' mair o'
horrible and awfu'
Which ev'n to name
wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd
and curious,
The mirth and fun grew
fast and furious:
The piper loud and
louder blew,
The dancers quick and
quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set,
they cross'd, they cleekit
Till ilka
carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her
duddies to the wark
And linket at it
in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had they
been queens
A' plump an' strapping,
in their teens;
Their sarks, instead
o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white
seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks
o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were
plush o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae
gi'en them aff my hurdies,
For ae
blink o' the bonnie burdies!
[Pg 186] But wither'd
beldames auld and droll,
Rigwoodie
hags wad spean a foal,
Louping and
flinging on a crummock,
I wonder
didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kenn'd what was what
fu' brawlie,
There was a winsome
wench and walie,
That night enlisted
in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on
Carrick shore!
For monie a beast to
dead she shot,
And perish'd monie a
bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle
corn and bear,
And kept the country
side in fear).
Her cutty sark o'
Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she
had worn,
In longitude though sorely
scanty,
It was her best, and she was
vauntie:
Ah! little kenn'd thy
reverend grannie,
That sark she coft
for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund
Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever
graced a dance o' witches!
But here my muse her wing
man cour:
Sic flights are far beyond
her power:
To sing how Nannie lap and
flang,
(A souple jade she was an'
strang),
An' how Tam stood like ane
bewitch'd,
An' thought his very een
enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd and
fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew
wi' might and main:
Till first ae
caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his
reason a' thegither,
And roars out,
'Weel done, Cutty sark!'
And in an
instant all was dark;
And scarcely
had he Maggie rallied,
When out the
hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry
fyke,
When plundering herds assail
their byke;
As open pussie's mortal
foes,
When, pop! she starts before
their nose;
As eager runs the market
crowd,
When 'Catch the thief!'
resounds aloud,—
So Maggie
runs, the witches follow,
Wi' monie
an eldritch screetch and hollow.
[Pg 187] Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam!
thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell
they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In
vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!
Kate
soon will be a waefu' woman!
Now do
thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the
key-stane o' the brig;
There at them
thou thy tail may toss,
A running
stream they darena cross.
But ere the
key-stane she could make,
The fient a
tail she had to shake!
For Nannie,
far before the rest,
Hard upon noble
Maggie press'd,
And flew at Tam wi'
furious ettle;
But little wist she
Maggie's mettle—
Ae spring
brought aff her master hale,
But left
behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin
caught her by the rump,
An' left poor
Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth
shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son
take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are
inclined,
Or cutty sarks run in your
mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er
dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's
mare."
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