Crighton, was present at their unhallowed meetings. KIRKTON, in his secret and _true_ History of the Church of Scotland, p. 190, gravely says, “Mr Giden Penman, curat at Creighton, was well known to be a _witch_; divers eye-witnesses deponed they had many times seen him at the witches’ meetings, and that the devil called him ordinarily, _Penman, my chaplane_. Also upon a time, when Satan administered communion to his congregation, Penman sat next his elbow; and that when their deacon had served the table with wafers in the popish fashion, when their remained two wafers more than served the company, the deacon laid down his two wafers before the devil, which two the devil gave to Penman, and bid him goe carrie these to the papists in Winton.” Penman narrowly escaped punishment, and lost his kirk.

“Sept. 11th, 1678.—Catharine Liddel exhibited a complaint against one Rutherford, baron bailie to Morison of Preston-grange, and against David Cowan in Tranent, bearing that they had seized upon her an innocent woman, and had defamed her as a witch, and detained her under restraint as a prisoner; and that the said Cowan had pricked her with long pins in sundry places of her body, and bled her and tortured her most cruelly. The defences were, that she was delated by other witches, and was therefore apprehended;—that she was kindly used and kept in a private house; that she and her son-in-law consented that she might be searched for the vindication of her innocence, &c.; that the pricker learned his trade from Kincaid, a famed pricker; 2d, That he never came unsent for, because he was either called by sheriffs, magistrates of burghs, ministers, or bailies of baronies; 3d, The trade was not improbat or condemned by any law; 4th, All divines or lawyers who write on witchcraft, as Perkins, Delrio, &c. acknowledge there are such marks, called by them _stigma sagarum_. In the defence it was urged, that consent _was denied_;—that the _pricker_ was a _cheat, who abused the people for gain_; and the Chancellor remembered that he had incarcerated Kincaid the pricker at Kinross, for abusing the country there. The Lords of Privy Council declared the woman innocent, and ordained it to be publicly intimated in her parish church the Sunday following. They reproved Rutherford, the baron-bailie, for his rashness, and ordered the pricker to prison to remain during their pleasure. Prohibited in future any inferior judge or baron-bailie from incarcerating the lieges on suspicion of witchcraft, without a warrant from Lords of Privy Council or Justiciary; as also found they might not use any torture by pricking, as by withholding them from sleep, &c. but reserved all that to themselves and the justices, and those who acted by their commission.”—See _Fountainhall’s Decis._ vol. i. p. 16.

A more salutary decree could not have been issued by the Privy Council. It appears from the deposition, that Kincaid had abused the innocent for gain, under the sanction of the clergy and magistracy; and here, though we must make allowance for prejudice and ignorance, yet he imposed on the candid Fountainhall himself, as we have seen in the trial of Elizabeth Moodie.

In 1698 we find the following notice in the session records of Spott.—“The session, after a long examination of witnesses, refer the case of Marion Lillie, for imprecations and supposed witchcraft to the presbytery, who refer her for trial to the civil magistrate. Said Marion, generally called the Rigwoody Witch;”—and, in 1705, we learn from the same register, that many witches were burnt on the top of Spott Loan, which was probably the last execution for this imputed crime in East Lothian.

In a MS. volume of sermons, preached in the parish of Stenton, at a communion in 1702, during the incumbency of the Rev. Mr Stark, the following passage occurs in debarring unworthy communicants: “I debar all witches and warlocks; all who have renounced their baptism, and who are in compact or contract with the devil.”

The very name of witch was now regarded with so much abhorrence and dread, that Dec. 21st, 1707, Margaret Rankine was cited before the kirk-session of Pencaitland, merely for calling Margaret Nicolson _witch_! This Rankine stoutly denied; but as she had been frequently before the same tribunal for other offences, she was considered a person incapable of church discipline, and remitted to the civil magistrate, with a request, that “the minister and elders of Winton may inform Bailie Smith, the Earl of Winton’s bailie, thereof, that he may take a _course_ with her.”—_Sess. Rec. Pencait._

I may close these remarks with an anecdote of Helen Sharpe, who lived in Haddington about fifty years ago. My informant, when a girl at the school, remembers the terror she spread among old and young. Helen was seen stalking about, decked in her linsey-wolsey gown, checked worsted apron, blue hood and cloak, with her crooked headed staff. One dark winter night the midwife was sent for to one of the wives of Clerkington. After vaulting with howdie suppleness behind Ralph at the Custom-stone, she knew not where she was, till she and her companion stood at the miller’s door. It appeared as if they had been whirled rapidly through the air in a wonderful manner. Helen’s next exploit was bewitching Provost Dudgeon’s kye, in consequence of having been refused sour milk by his lady. Next morning not a drop of milk would come from the witch-struck udders. In future they took care to be more bountiful. When Helen died, several candles were found in her chest, supposed to be kept for midnight meetings, and no hallowed purpose.

The ages are happily now passed, when a convent of pretty nuns run the risk of being metamorphosed into a bevy of squirrels; and perhaps the finest apology for witchcraft on record, and that which is most applicable to modern times, is that of _Furius Cresinus_, who, when accused of magic, because he had better crops of corn than his neighbours, brought before them for his defence his heavy ploughs and spades, and sun-burnt daughters, and said, These were the charms that he made use of!—_Pliny’s Nat. Hist._

Nearly allied to witchcraft is the theory of ghosts and apparitions. There are few who have not read “The Wonderful and True Account of the Laird of Cool’s Ghost,” which appeared to Mr Ogilvie, minister of Innerwick, about a hundred years ago. Mr Maxwell, the laird of Cool, had been a very wicked man; and as he could not get rest in his grave, till some reparation was made to those whom he had wronged upon earth, sundry conversations took place between his apparition and Mr Ogilvie, near Brandslee, for this very proper purpose. The ghost came commonly mounted on horseback, which horse, gentle reader, was the redoubtable Andrew Johnston, one of his tenants, who had departed this life forty-eight hours before his master! The conversations that took place, which are mixed up with more arguments than these spiritual visitants are commonly understood to use, were found amongst Mr Ogilvie’s papers after his decease, and were too valuable to be withheld from the world. We can scarcely conceive that they were dictated by malice, but rather that they were flesh and blood confessions and opinions, thrown into a ghostly form.

The next and last story of this kind which I shall intrude upon the reader, is one which I picked up when in search of matter of a different nature; and which, but for its remarkable termination, might be easily explained away.

=A Tale of Garleton.=

Rather more than fifty years ago, an old maiden lady,[14] of good family, was the tenant of one of the now decayed wings of the mansion-house of Garleton. She is described as a tall thin figure, who wore a black silk cloak and bonnet, and walked with a large cane, ornamented with a gold chain and tassel. She had also a great deal of eccentricity in her conduct; for she often walked at dead of night and early dawn, till she was so wetted by the dews and the long dank grass, that, on her return home, she had to shift her clothes or go to bed. Add to this, that she had the misfortune to be a papist, and was very ostensible in her devotions; so that we need not wonder that she was regarded by the superstitious of the neighbourhood with no small degree of terror and aversion.

Having sauntered out one morning till near sunrise, she sat down on the Craggy Hill, when “an odd-looking man,” as she termed him, approached her. She waved her cane to keep off the intruder, who, after muttering something, went away. The lady immediately returned home; but, during the day, could not banish the unwelcome visitor from her thoughts. At night, after locking the outer door, and placing the key below her pillow, she went to bed, as usual, at a late hour. In vain she endeavoured to compose herself to sleep, and to dissipate the troublous thoughts that rose in her mind; at length she heard the outer door open, and a heavy foot come tramping up the creaking stairs; something opened the door, and entered the room adjoining to her bed-closet; the door of the latter next opened, and she again beheld the unwelcome visitor—the spectre of the morning.

She was only able to articulate, “Who comes there?” when the stranger replied, “This is my native place, and I have a long history to tell you!” The lady, thinking the intruder was a robber, pointed to a small box containing her keys, and bade him take what he wanted, and begone. The mysterious personage still wished to speak; but as she waved her hand, and inclined not to listen, he disappeared. As he retired, she again heard the heavy foot tramping down the creaking stairs, till the slashing of the outer door announced his exit.

Although the lady passed a sleepless night, she was unwilling to disturb the inmates of her house, which consisted only of a maiden lady and a domestic. Next morning, when the servant came for the key of the outer door, she told her what had happened, and that she imagined robbers had been in the house. The maid had also the imperfect recollection of some noise; but it was like the noise of a dream. At her lady’s desire she immediately went to the press where the family plate was deposited, but found it unmolested; the silver wine-cup stood on the mantlepiece, below the crucifix, untouched, and the outer door remained fast: in short, every thing stood in its place, as on the preceding evening.

It was the impression of the less superstitious part of the neighbourhood, that the old maiden lady was superannuated, and that the ghastly visitant was the creature of a dream. Be this as it may, on that very day twelvemonth, the Lady of Garleton was seized with a convulsive fit in the evening, and expired about the same hour at midnight that she had had an interview with the unwelcome visitor. I have only to add, that the person from whom I had the preceding story is of unquestionable veracity; and that she had often heard it from the lady’s own lips.

The ruins of the mansion-house stand at the foot of Garleton hills, a fine miniature specimen of Highland scenery. Amidst scenes like these, the author of Douglas poured forth his immortal strains to the midnight air. Upon a sequestered dell, nearly opposite Kilduff, called Ravensdale, or, more familiarly, Watty’s Howe, Mr Home pursued his declamatory studies, to the no small terror of the benighted traveller, who hence conjectured that the place was haunted.

THE VICAR OF GOLYN.

Gif evir my fortune wes to be a freir, The dait thereof is past full mony a yeir; For into every lusty toun and place, Off all Yngland, from Berwick to Calice, I haif into thy habeit maid gud cheir. WILLIAM DUNBAR.

The ruins of the ancient church of Golyn (now called Gullane) still remain, which served that place and Dirleton till 1612, when the church was translated to the latter parish, of which Gullane now forms a part. The last Vicar of Golyn is said to have been deposed by King James VI. for the high crime of smoking tobacco—a weed which his majesty deemed only fit for diabolical fumigations.—See _Grose’s Scots. Ant._ vol. i. p. 71, where there is a fine view of the church.

THE VICAR OF GOLYN.

In James’s pedant reign, so famed for schooling, There dwelt a Vicar at the church of Golyn; In friar’s weed, like Will Dunbar, he’d preach’d; In friar’s weed the ladies he had fleech’d, For he was fond of amatory fooling.

At golf, or archery, or football match, Like Indian juggler, he the game would catch; At cards, or dice, or chess, he had no equal, With other items, noted in the sequel— A motley priest as e’er the church did hatch.

His cheeks were reddish brown, like colour’d brandy; His neck look’d stiff and starch’d, like modern dandy; His belly round and full: this oily glutton Would gobble at one meal a leg of mutton— A man that’s overfed is most unhandy!

His lips were parch’d with an eternal drouth; His lusty tongue was larger than his mouth; So, when he minced tobacco’s scented quid, The noxious slaver down his bosom slid:— He was a man in figure most uncouth!

To crown his face he had a bottle nose, Which with his chin was like to come to blows, They look’d as if they’d eat up one another: His eye was round and red unlike its brother; His face shaped as full moon we may suppose.

His knees against each other idly knockit, As if they long’d to burst their clumsy socket; Beneath his heavy carcass, worn and spent, His shins were like twin cross-bows when they’re bent; His arms were like a hat when it is cocked.

Now I’ve described his person; for his mind It show’d the very dregs of humankind; Debauch’d with endless round of fraud and folly, His private hours were spent in haunts unholy,— His parallel on earth I scarce may find.

His lying tongue was veil’d in eloquence, Which preach’d up sophistry for common sense; His smile satanic mask’d a wicked heart; His manners shew’d the polish’d man of art, That wins too often the world’s recompense.

His name became a by-word, disrespected— His flock by Satan worried, were neglected! He was, indeed, a very sinful Vicar, Who barter’d holy water for his liquor; Yet he look’d merry aye, and ne’er dejected.

At Beltane-time he made the riggings ring, And songs profane for holy lilts would sing; At Lenten-time a perfect Epicurean, In secret capons with his fish devouring; While his liege paramour did aqua bring.

Indeed, so many ways he tortured fish, Each Lent supplied him with a favourite dish; On Fridays he had pickled salmon ready, And mack’rel from the wives of Aberlady— Our Vicar never went about the bush.

And much he loved to guzzle precious wine, That once had blush’d in vineyards on the Rhine; Fresh fragrant claret too from joyous France; That which he prized was Angiers and Orlance— Liquor on which the gods of Greece might dine.

How the lean curate crouch’d to his command, When like the bust of famine he would stand! With tatter’d gown, and under-raiment rent, Thin jaws, that pictured an eternal Lent, Stretching, to catch a crumb, his skinny hand.

The Vicar too, of tithes and cattle greedy, Would fix his ugly talons in the needy; When the poor cottar sought his humble grave, His fattest cow, for prayers, the priest must have, While of her raploch gray he robb’d the widow.

Ash Wednesday has seen the Vicar meet With drouthy cummers to Malvasie treat, Where he would sit carousing till the Monday, Then go to preach, thinking the day was Sunday, When he could scarcely stand upon his feet.

He pitter-patter’d o’er his rusty rosary, To know his creed one must have had a glossary; He mumbled things divine with so much bawling, His hearers liken’d it to caterwauling— He was a man unworthy shoes or hosiery!

Yet he was deeply read in Aristotle, And might have soar’d, but for the aqua bottle; He knew Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine, Benedict, Bernard, Clement, Cleit, and Lyne;[15] But, then, he went too often to the hotel.

He’d studied history, barbarous and civil; He knew when stars denoted good or evil; Versed in alchymy, he went plodding on, Yet never lit on the philosopher’s stone, While some surmised he’d dealings with the devil.

I’ve said, for sports athletic he was keen, Footing the mazy ball on Golyn-green; At weapon-shaws a regular looker-on, But ere the broil began, our priest was gone To join the gallant’s mask at Christmas e’en.

A man that’s light of head is light of heel, Our Vicar loved to join the Beltane reel, Where he would skipper in the Dirry-duntoun, And hop about just like a pillar wanton; Threading his body spiral as an eel.

He loved, like Will Dunbar, the courtly dance, Where Mistress Musgrave’s smiles did all enhance, Shading with garlands gay her yellow hair:— Her kirtle red, with belt and brooch so fair; For such a lady, who’d not break a lance?

When age the giddy heat of youth is cooling, ’Tis time our wayward passions to be ruling; So thinks the major part of humankind; But to his failings ever darkly blind Remain’d the Vicar of the church of Golyn.

He hated merchants—hated tailors trim; He hated souters, baxters, fleshers grim; He hated brewers—but not tavern-keepers; He hated all his hearers—but the sleepers;— And so he might, because they hated him!

In Mary’s reign he turned Episcopalian, Changing his church and creed to serve his calling; Like weathercock, that waver’d with the wind, To all but pettifogging interest blind, He sneak’d wherever fortune’s rays were falling.

Then came that vice of great abomination, As ever visited a sinful nation; Which set our prince’s pendant pen a-railing: Our Vicar, most unlucky, caught the failing, And to the devil smoked his congregation.

Our Vicar having learn’d this art of smoking, Which (as I’ve said) the parish set a choking, The king, still mindful of his people’s weal, Wrote Tracts against Tobacco and the De’il! Swearing the vice was sinful and provoking.

Then swore the monarch, “This same fumigation “Will, doubtless, bring a curse upon the nation; “I’ll send for Tycho Brahe from Copenhagen; “I’ll send my smoking clergy to the begging— “Those tickle-snouts must mind their flock’s salvation!”

O ye who love to feed your nasal ducts! Chewing tobacco till your stomach pukes, I beg you’ll take a lesson from the Vicar, Behind the door you’d better bend the bicker! What think you of this case, my pretty bucks?

For now-a-days there’s not a little dandy, But wears a box so fanciful and handy, Brimful of Maccaba or Princes Mixture, Tickling his lady, when he’s sitting next her;— And then his bridge-like organ looks so sandy.

Ye fools! when Christmas brings the huge sirloin, And tables groan ere knives in carnage join, Ye do not feel that kitchen-scented flavour, That makes the impatient mouthful sweeter savour— O fy! that for such plant you sport your coin!

Digressions we must leave, and seek the Vicar, Who’s seated snugly o’er his favourite liquor; For once his Holiness has studied deep, For o’er the Litany he’s gone to sleep,— With reverence, I do think he’s getting sicker.

Our hero now, in secret, fed his nose, An ounce of snuff he gobbled at a dose, Till tired, his evil genius took to smoking, And set the neighbourhood again a-choking, Who forthwith sallied like a host of foes.

This deed his frousy neighbours wish’d to hush up, But for a saint who wish’d to nibble fish up, Yclept in prose, assistant and successor, A brainless fellow, but a great professor, Who went post-speed, and told it to the bishop.

The bishop told the king to curry grace, Which pleased so well his heaven-anointed face, He gave a puff as fierce as the sirrocco, Issued his Counterblast against Tobacco; And call’d the Vicar up with little space.

“Item, our pleasure is, on heavy grounds “To purge the church of fumigating hounds; “Therefore, that this said Vicar may not fool us, “In other words, with quirks and quibbling gull us, “We banish him beyond our church’s bounds.”

The Vicar heard his sentence, and was wroth. He did not value much the Lutheran cloth; But, O! to leave the Links and football match, The Golyn cummer’s glee, and merry catch; At leaving these he tarried, and was loth.

Raising his voice to an obstreperous pitch, “Go tell!” cried he, “that ugly Lutheran bitch! “That I will snuff while I have got a nose; “That I will smoke while my stout windpipe blows; “And when I fail, go brand me for a witch!”

The Vicar took a trip beyond the sea, To Calais first, and next to Italie; Again became a servant to the Pope, Yet never gain’d preferment’s dizzy top, But died, despised, among the Lazzaroni.

’Twas said a shape unearthly oft was seen, Playing at football match on Golyn green;— ’Twas said, at dead of night, on Golyn steeple, The Vicar smoked, and hallo’d to the people; Such sights were strange—but yet such sights have been.

THE GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL, AND THE LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o’ Tulloshill.” _Old Proverb._

This ballad is founded on a traditional story, which I have gathered from different sources, and put into a connected form. The hero was John the second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale,—a nobleman as famous for his loyalty to the wavering interests of Charles II. during the sway of the “immortal rebel,” Cromwell, as he was afterwards notorious for his political power and rapacity. The heroine was Margaret Lylestone, wife to Thomas Hardie, tenant in Tulloshill. There were anciently three farms of Tullos in Lammermoor, and from her abode, by way of distinction, she was called _Mid-side Maggy_. The adventure noticed in the following Ballad, must have occurred after the battle of Worcester, in 1651, where the Duke of Lauderdale was taken prisoner, and suffered a confinement in the Tower for nine years, till liberated by General Monk in 1660; when repairing to the Hague, he returned with the king at the Restoration.

THE GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL, AND THE LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

There dwelt in pastoral Tulloshill, Where waves the mountain broom, A fair gudewife, and a leal auld man, As ye’d found in landwart toun.

Her cheeks were dyed wi’ health’s bright glow, That spake in her eyes o’ blue; And wantonly the dimpling smile Play’d round her cherry mou’.

The rustic swains jeer’d merrily, While seated o’er the cann,— And wonder’d why so young a dame, Had wed so auld a man!

The gudewife went to Lauder Tower, And made a loud lament; And told the Lord of Lauderdale She coudna pay her rent.

Perish’d the firstlings of their flocks, The winters were sae chill, The April snaw lay on the ground When it fell at Tulloshill.

Upspake the Lord of Lauderdale, “Gudewife, I grant a boon, “Ye’se sit rent-free at Martinmas “If ye bring me snaw in June.”

And he toy’d wi’ the gudewife’s sunny locks, And chuck’d her under the chin; And compared her skin to the creamy flocks, That o’er the Scenes-law rin.

“Now haud ye there, Sir Knight,” she said, And away like a fawn she ran; But he did nae mair to the merry wife Than became an honest man.

She made a ba’ of drifted snaw, Which she gather’d by Criblaw shiel; And she laid it in a rocky dean, And cover’d it wi’ grey meal.

And she brought it in the end of June To ancient Thirlestane; And my lord received her graciously In his state chamber alane.

“Now spare your speech, gudewife,” he cried, “And make no foolish mane; “For one kiss o’ your hinny mou “Were worth a’ Thirlestane.”

“Now, fare thee weel! Sir Knight,” she said, (As her Ladyship cam ben,) “Ye’se get the best at Tulloshill, “When ye shoot the mountain hen.”

Deep lay the snaw in Lammermoor, On mountain height and glen, And cauld, cauld blew the sleety shower O’er Greenlaw’s mossy fen.

And deep lay the snaw in Leader-haughs, And drifted o’er the plain, When at the rack-rent o’ the year She thought o’ her Lord again.

“The spring returns to Whalplaw burn, “The birds to Langhope shaw; “But when will Lauderdale return?— “O, he’s been lang awa!

“When Charlie gets his rightfu’ crown, “Which Cromwell fain wad wear; “When the democratic parliament “To the depths of hell shall stear.

“Alas! for the battle of Worcester, “Where Lauderdale was ta’en, “And the gallant Duke of Hamilton “Lay dead amang the slain.

“My silken snood I’d gladly sell, “And crimson kirtle gay, “To ransom him, laid in the Tower “For aiding royalty.

“My siller brooch I’d gladly sell, “And eke my golden kaim; “And surely I’d gang daft wi’ joy, “Were my good lord come hame!”

Her Culross girdle from the shelf She took, sae large and clean; For eighteen cakes o’ the Merse’s make This girdle held I ween.

She baked a bannock, large and round, Wi’ flour frae Carfrae mill;— And there ne’er was a cake but had its maik, Save that o’ Tulloshill.

For aye as she kneaded it o’er and o’er, She fill’d it fou o’ gold, Then doubled it up like a honeycomb, Wi’ treasures in its fold.

She plaited up her yellow hair In an artful sunny braid; Then cover’d her locks wi’ the bonnet blue, And her bosom wi’ the plaid.

She laced her velvet milk-white limbs In the tartan trews sae rough, And buried her well-turned ancles in The folds of homespun stuff.

Thus fashion’d, in a herdsman’s dress, She padded her shelty’s back; And rode behind her leal auld man When wearied wi’ her walk.

Like drovers from the north countrie, They travell’d on together; And gallop’d away to London town, O’er mountain, glen, and heather.

And as the Borders wide they pass’d, The southron dames wou’d say, “Beshrew me! that’s a bonny lad, “Led by his father grey.”

The gudewife came to London town, And went into Rag Fair, And drest herself like a beggar-wife, Wi’ wallets scant and bare.

And when she came to London Tower She feign’d herself insane, And aye the burden of her song Was, “Harry, back again!”

And, “Carle, now the king has come!” She sung wi’ Scottish voice; But when she chanted Leaderhaughs, His lordship did rejoice.

And aye she leugh and aye she lap, And foolish words let pass; While the sentinels stood by and jeer’d The silly Scottish lass.

And they have sworn to take her up, And fling her in the moat; When up came the keeper of the Tower, Who made them change their note.

“Know ye the Lord of Lauderdale?” Said the officer of the Tower; “O I wad kiss him lug frae lug!” Quoth she, “within this hour;

“And garland him with gowans rare, “Frae Mid-side Maggy’s bower; “Gif ye wad let a silly lass “Your draw-brig wander o’er.”

They let her pass the castle-gates, Although her looks were wild; For she gambol’d on so harmlessly, Like a lamb or a little child.

Beneath her ragged arm she bore The bannock doubled o’er— “Is such your Scottish bread, daft lass?” Quoth the keeper of the Tower.

“O sweet is Scotia’s aiten-cakes, “And pure her siller springs; “And the food we cull from Scotia’s hills “Might banquet English kings.”

Forth came the Earl’s waiting-man, When he heard the gudewife sing; For Leaderhaughs and Cowdenknowes Made his very heart-strings ring.

“Go, speed, and your lordly master tell, “But take it good or ill, “That Mid-side Maggy greets him here, “From broomy Tulloshill.”

She went into Lord Lauderdale, Who sat in chains array’d; But as she pass’d the steel-laced gates, She felt her heart dismay’d.

And she felt a woman’s natural fears Rush o’er her fainting soul, When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate, And heard the lions growl.

When she pass’d beneath the Traitor’s Gate, And saw Lord Derby’s head, She thought her velvet thighs wad shake Away frae the knee-pan lid.

She sat her down at his lordship’s feet, And comb’d her yellow hair; And the gold fell down like diamond heaps In shining goupins there.

She took the bannock in her hand, And brake it o’er her knee; And on the floor, in yellow showers, The golden guineas flee.

“Now take thee these, my worthy lord, “’Tis all I have to gi’e! “And seek in Holland’s princely towers “For safety o’er the sea.”—

“A friend in need’s a friend indeed!” He took her by the hand; “For such a dame as thee, gudewife, “I’d part wi’ hauf my land!

“But fare thee weel! my bonny dow! “Oh! fare thee weel a while; “Ye’se sit rent free till I return “To broomy Tulloshill.

“Frae Leader-side to rocky Esk “The lands ye see are mine, “Yet fate decrees, in a foreign land, “That I these fields maun tine.”

“Now, fare thee weel! my generous lord,” Was all that she could say, “I’ll pray for you on my bare, bare knees “Till your returning day.”

They durst nae harm Lord Lauderdale, Nor they durst nae set him free, Till nine lang years pass’d o’er his head In the Tower sae drearilie.

When Cromwell low in the dust was laid, And that parliament in its wane, Which he long had rein’d wi’ a master-hand, Our lord got free again.

Away he sail’d o’er the snowy foam, To the Prince of Holland’s towers, And met his king right gladsomely In Hague’s canal-lined bowers.

And aye he blest the leal gudewife That won’d at Tulloshill; For he found her goud of use to him When his ain was nae in his will.

And, O! but she was a proud gudewife, When she hail’d the king’s return; For again she saw Lord Lauderdale Restored to Leader-burn.

No more like tenant, scant o’ cash, Rent-time did her dismay; For she got free lease of Tulloshill Her life-lang and a day.

My lord gi’ed her a silver belt, Sprinkled wi’ diamonds fine;[16] And she walk’d in a star-like galaxy, Dug from the Indian mine.

The muse’s finest flights maun fail, So drops my downy quill; For John is Duke of Lauderdale— Meg—Queen of Tulloshill.

YOUNG ARGYLE; OR, STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.

Argyle, the state’s whole thunder born to wield, And shake alike the senate or the field.—POPE.

Nor less the palm of peace enwreathes thy brow; For, powerful as thy sword, from thy rich tongue Persuasion flows, and wins the high debate; While mix’d in thee combine the charm of youth, The force of manhood, and the depth of age.—THOMSON.

Lethington House is situated on the south banks of the Tyne, rather more than a mile from Haddington. This fortalice was built by the Giffords, and was purchased from Sir John Gifford by Sir Richard Maitland, about the end of the fourteenth century. It was in this “fortress, large and lang,” in its “arbour, and orchard green,” where Lord Lethington, the blind baron, dictated his poetical pieces, after he had retired from public business, at an advanced age, to his daughter Mary, the partner of his studies, and herself a writer of verses, who was celebrated for her “fleing fame,” and her “trew virginitie,” by the “unknawin makars” of that period.—See _Pinkerton’s Ant. Scot. Poems._—In process of time Lethington became the jointure house of the Duchess of Lauderdale, formerly Countess of Dysart. Her daughter, Lady Lorn, afterwards Duchess of Argyle, resided here during the time of her father-in-law’s forfeiture.—It was from a window in the uppermost storey of the house that John, Duke of Argyle, fell when an infant, and escaped unhurt.—_Dr Barclay, Trans. Ant. Scot._ I have only to add, on the authority of Sir Walter Scott, that this happened on the very day on which the duke’s grandfather was beheaded at Edinburgh.

YOUNG ARGYLE; OR STANZAS TO LETHINGTON CASTLE.