Allan Ramsay, who wrote in the first half of the eighteenth
century, does not appear to have believed in witches or evil
spirits. He, however, like other poets, found it convenient to
introduce superstition into his poetical effusions. This will be
seen from the following extracts from his Gentle
Shepherd.
BAULDY.
"What's this?—I canna
bear't!—'tis worse than hell,
To be sae burnt with love, yet daurna tell!
O Peggy! sweeter than the dawning
day;
Sweeter than gowany glens or
new-mawn hay;
Blyther than lambs that
frisk out o'er the knows;
Straighter
than aught that in the forest grows;
Her een the clearest blob of dew outshines;
The lily in her breast its beauty
tines;
Her legs, her arms, her
cheeks, her mouth, her een,
Will be
my dead, that will be shortly seen!
[Pg 219]
For Pate looes her—waes me!—and she
looes Pate
And I with Neps, by some
unlucky fate,
Made a daft vow. O, but
ane be a beast,
That makes rash aiths
till he's afore the priest!
I darna
speak my mind, else a' the three,
But
doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy.
'Tis sair to thole;—I'll try some witchcraft
art,
To break with ane, and win the
other's heart.
Here Mausy lives, a
witch that for sma' price
Can cast
her cantraips, and gie me advice.
She
can o'ercast the night, and cloud the moon,
And make the deils obedient to her
crune;
At midnight hours, o'er the
kirk-yard she raves,
And howks
unchristen'd weans out of their graves;
Boils up their livers in a warlock's pow;
Rins withershins about the hemlock
low;
And seven times does her prayers
backwards pray,
Till Plotcock comes
with lumps of Lapland clay,
Mixt with
the venom of black taids and snakes:
Of this unsonsy pictures aft she makes
Of ony ane she hates,—and gars
expire
With slow and racking pains
afore a fire,
Stuck fu' of pins; the
devilish pictures melt;
The pain by
fowk they represent is felt.
And
yonder's Mause: Ay, ay, she kens fu' weel,
When ane like me comes rinning to the
deil!
She and her cat sit beeking in
her yard:
To speak my errand, faith,
amaist I'm fear'd!
But I maun do't,
tho' I should never thrive:
They
gallop fast that deils and lasses drive.
*****
How does auld honest lucky
of the glen?
Ye look baith hale end
fair at threescore-ten.
MAUSE.
E'en twining out a thread
with little din,
And beeking my cauld
limbs afore the sun.
What brings my
bairn this gate sae air at morn?
Is
there nae muck to lead? to thresh nae corn?
BAULDY.
Enough of baith: but
something that requires
Your helping
hand employs now all my cares.
[Pg
220]MAUSE.
My helping hand! alake, what
can I do,
That underneith baith eild
and poortith bow?
BAULDY.
Ay, but you're wise, and
wiser far than we;
Or maist part of
the parish tells a lie.
MAUSE.
Of what kind wisdom think ye
I'm possest,
That lifts my character
aboon the rest?
BAULDY.
The word that gangs, how
ye're sae wise and fell,
Ye'll maybe
tak it ill gif I should tell.
MAUSE.
What folk say of me, Bauldy,
let me hear;
Keep naething up, ye
naething have to fear.
BAULDY.
Well, since ye bid me, I
shall tell ye a'
That ilk ane talks
about you, but a flaw.
When last the
wind made Glaud a roofless barn;
When
last the burn bore down my mither's yarn;
When Brawny, elf-shot, never mair came hame;
When Tibby kirn'd, and there nae butter
came;
When Bessy Freetock's
chuffy-cheeked wean
To a fairy
turn'd, and cou'dna stand its lane;
When Wattie wander'd ae night thro' the shaw
And tint himsell amaist amang the
snaw;
When Mungo's mare stood still
and swat wi' fright,
When he brought
east the howdy under night;
When
Bawsy shot to dead upon the green;
And Sara tint a snood was nae mair seen;—
You, lucky, gat the wyte of a' fell
out;
And ilka ane here dreads ye
round about,—
And say they may
that mint to do ye skaith:
For me to
wrang ye I'll be very laith;
But when
I neist make groats, I'll strive to please
You with a firlot of them mixt with
pease.
MAUSE.
I thank ye, lad!—Now
tell me your demand;
And, if I can,
I'll lend my helping hand.
[Pg
221]BAULDY.
Then, I like Peggy; Neps is
fond of me;
Peggy likes Pate; and
Patie's bauld and slee,
And looes
sweet Meg; but Neps I downa see.
Could ye turn Patie's love to Neps, and then
Peggy's to me, I'd be the happiest
man.
MAUSE.
I'll try my airt to gar the
bowls row right;
Sae gang your ways
and come again at night;
'Gainst that
time I'll some simple things prepare,
Worth all your pease and groats, tak ye nae
care.
BAULDY.
Well, Mause, I'll come, gif
I the road can find;
But if ye raise
the deil, he'll raise the wind;
Syne
rain and thunder, maybe, when 'tis late
Will make the night sae mirk, I'll tine the gate.
We're a' to rant in Symie's at a
feast,—
O! will ye come, like
badrans, for a jest?
And there you
can our different haviours spy;
There's nane shall ken o't there but you and
I.
MAUSE.
'Tis like I may: But let na
on what's past
'Tween you and me,
else fear a kittle cast.
BAULDY.
If I aught of your secrets
e'er advance,
May ye ride on me ilka
night to France!
MAUSE.
This fool imagines—as
do many sic—
That I'm a witch
in compact with Auld Nick,
Because by
education I was taught
To speak and
act aboon their common thought:
Their
gross mistake shall quickly now appear;
Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me
here.
Now since the royal Charles,
and right's restor'd,
A shepherdess
is daughter to a lord.
The bonny
foundling that's brought up by Glaud,
Wha has an uncle's care on her bestow'd,—
Her infant life I sav'd, when a false
friend
Bow'd to the usurper, and her
death design'd,
[Pg 222] To
establish him and his in all these plains
That by right heritage to her pertains.
She's now in her sweet bloom, has blood and
charms
Of too much value for a
shepherd's arms.
None know't but
me!—And if the morn were come,
I'll tell them tales will gar them a' sing
dumb.
*****
SIR WILLIAM.
How goes the night? does
day-light yet appear
Symon, you're
very timeously asteer.
SYMON.
I'm sorry, sir, that we've
disturb'd your rest;
But some strange
thing has Bauldy's spirit opprest,
He's seen some witch, or wrestled with a
ghaist.
BAULDY.
O! ay; dear sir, in troth,
'tis very true;
And I am come to make
my plaint to you.
SIR WILLIAM.
I lang to hear
't.
BAULDY.
Ah! sir, the witch ca'd
Mause,
That wins aboon the mill amang
the haws,
First promis'd that she'd
help me with her art,
To gain a bonny
thrawart lassie's heart.
As she had
trysted, I met wi'er this night;
But
may nae friend of mine get sic a fright!
For the curst hag, instead of doing me
good—
The very thought o't's
like to freeze my blood!
Rais'd up a
ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk,
Like
a dead corse in sheet as white as milk;
Black hands it had, and face as wan as death.
Upon me fast the witch and it fell
baith,
And gat me down, while I, like
a great fool,
Was labour'd as I wont
to be at school.
My heart out of its
hool was like to loup;
I pithless
grew with fear, and had nae hope;
Till, with an elritch laugh, they vanished quite.
Syne I half dead with anger, fear, and
spite,
Crap up and fled straight frae
them, sir, to you,
Hoping your help
to gie the deil his due.
[Pg 223] I'm
sure my heart will ne'er gie o'er to dunt,
Till in a fat tar-barrel Mause be
burnt!
*****
SIR WILLIAM.
Troth, Symon, Bauldy's more
afraid than hurt;
The witch and
ghaist have made themselves good sport.
What silly notions crowd the clouded mind,
That is through want of education
blind!
SYMON.
But does your honour think
there's nae sic thing
As witches
raising deils up through a ring?
Syne
playing tricks—a thousand I could tell—
Cou'd ne'er be contriv'd on this side
hell.
SIR WILLIAM.
Such as the devil's dancing
in a moor,
Amongst a few old women
craz'd and poor,
Who were rejoiced to
see him frisk and lowp
O'er braes and
bogs with candles in ***
Appearing
sometimes like a black-horn'd cow,
Aft-times like Bawty, Badrans, or a sow;
Then with his train through airy paths to
glide,
While they on carts, or
clowns, or broomstaffs ride;
Or in an
egg-shell skim out o'er the main,
To
drink their leader's health in France or Spain;
Then aft by night bumbaze hare-hearted
fools,
By tumbling down their
cupboards, chairs, and stools.
Whate'er's in spells, or if there witches be,
Such whimsies seem the most absurd to
me."
To glean from Cowper, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and the many other
poets who have contributed to superstitious lore, would swell
this portion of our work (The Poets and Superstition) to
an undue proportion; and therefore we take leave of the poets,
after giving extracts from Longfellow, whose talented effusions
are not only read and appreciated in America and England, but
over the whole world.
LUCIFER.
"Hasten! hasten!
O ye spirits!
From
its station drag the ponderous
Cross
of iron, that to mock us
Is uplifted
high in air!
VOICES.
O, we cannot!
For around it
All
the saints and guardian angels
Throng
in legions to protect it;
They defeat
us everywhere!
THE BELLS.
Laudo Deum verum!
Plebem voco!
Congrego clerum!
LUCIFER.
Lower! lower!
Hover downward!
Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and
Clashing, clanging, to the pavement
Hurl them from their windy
tower!
VOICES.
All thy thunders
Here are harmless!
For these bells have been anointed,
And baptised with holy water!
They defy our utmost power.
THE BELLS.
Defunctos ploro!
Pestem fugo!
Festa
decoro!
LUCIFER.
Shake the
casements!
Break the
painted
Panes, that flame with gold
and crimson;
Scatter them like leaves
of autumn,
Swept away before the
blast!
[Pg
225]VOICES.
O, we cannot!
The archangel
Michael flames from every window,
With the sword of fire that drove us
Headlong out of heaven, aghast!
THE BELLS.
Funera plango!
Fulgura frango!
Sabbata pango!
LUCIFER.
Aim your
lightnings
At the oaken,
Massive, iron-studded portals!
Sack the house of God, and scatter
Wide the ashes of the dead!
VOICES.
O, we cannot!
The apostles
And the
martyrs, wrapped in mantles,
Stand as
warders at the entrance,
Stand as
sentinels o'erhead!
THE BELLS.
Excito lentos!
Dissipo ventos!
Paco
cruentos!
LUCIFER.
Baffled! baffled!
Inefficient,
Craven
spirits! leave this labour
Unto Time,
the great destroyer!
Come away, ere
night is gone!
VOICES.
Onward! onward!
With the night wind,
Over field and farm and forest,
Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet,
Blighting all we breathe upon!"