Conclusion

Friend of the bard ! peace to thy heart,
Long hast thou acted generous part,
Long hast thou courteously in pain
Attended to a feeble strain,
While oft abashed has sunk thine eye, —
Thy task is done, the Wake is bye.

I saw thy fear, I knew it just ;
'Twas not for minstrels long in dust,
But for the fond and venturous swain
Who dared to wake their notes again ;
Yet oft thine eye has spoke delight,
I marked it well, and blessed the sight :
No sour disdain, nor manner cold,
Noted contempt for tales of old ;
Oft hast thou at the fancies smiled,
And marvelled at the legends wild ;
Thy task is o'er ; peace to thy heart !
For thou hast acted generous part.

'Tis said that thirty bards appeared,
That thirty names were registered,
With whom were titled chiefs combined,
But some are lost and some declined.
Woe's me, that all my mountain lore
Has been unfit to rescue more !
And that my guideless rustic skill
Has told those ancient tales so ill.

The prize harp still hung on the wall ;
The bards were warned to leave the hall,
Till courtiers gave the judgment true,
To whom the splendid prize was due.
What curious wight will pass with me,
The anxious motley group to see ;
List their remarks of right and wrong,
Of skilful hand and faulty song,
And drink one glass the bards among ?

There sit the men — behold them there,
Made maidens quake and courtiers stare,
Whose names shall future ages tell ;
What do they seem ? behold them well.
A simpler race you shall not see,
Awkward and vain as men can be;
Light as the fumes of fervid wine,
Or foam-bells floating on the brine,
The gossamers in air that sail,
Or down that dances in the gale.

Each spoke of other's fame and skill
With high applause, but jealous will.

Each song, each strain, he erst had known,
And all had faults except his own
Plaudits were mixed with meaning jeers,
For all had hopes, and all had fears.

A herald rose the court among,
And named each bard and named his song ;
Rizzio was named from royal chair —
" Rizzio !" re-echoed many a fair.
Each song had some that song approved,
And voices gave for bard beloved.
The first division called and done,
Gardyn stood highest just by one.
No merits can the courtier sway,
'Twas then, it seems, as at this day.

Queen Mary reddened, wroth was she
Her favourite thus outdone to see,
Reproved her squire in high disdain,
And caused him call the votes again.
Strange though it seem, the truth I say
Feature of that unyielding day,
Her favourite's voters counted o'er,
Were found much fewer than before.
Glistened her eyes with pungent dew ;
She found with whom she had to do.

Again the royal gallery rung
With names of those who second sung,
When, spite of haughty Highland blood,
The Bard of Ettrick upmost stood.

The rest were named who sung so late,
And, after long and keen debate,
The specious nobles of the south
Carried the nameless stranger youth ;
Though Highland wrath was at the full,
Contending for the Bard of Mull.

Then did the worst dispute begin,
Which of the three the prize should win.
'Twas party all — not minstrel worth,
But honour of the south and north ;
And nought was heard throughout the court,
But taunt, and sneer, and keen retort.
High ran the words, and fierce the fume,
And from beneath each nodding plume
Red look was cast that vengeance said,
And palm on broad-sword's hilt was laid,
While Lowland jeer, and Highland mood,
Threatened to end the Wake in blood.

Rose from his seat the Lord of Mar,
Serene in counsel as in war.
" For shame," said he, " contendants all !
This outrage done in royal hall
Is to our country foul disgrace :
What ! mock our Sovereign to her face !
Whose generous heart, and taste refined,
Alike to bard and courtier kind,
This high repast for all designed.
For shame ! your party strife suspend,
And list the counsel of a friend.

" Unmeet it is for you or me
To lessen one of all the three,
Each excellent in his degree ;
But taste, as sapient sages tell,
Varies with climes in which we dwell.

" Fair emblem of the Border dale,
Is cadence soft and simple tale ;
While stern romantic Highland clime,
Still nourishes the rude sublime.

" If Border ear may taste the worth
Of the wild pathos of the north ;
Or that sublimed by Ossian's lay,
By forest dark and mountain gray,
By clouds which frowning cliffs deform,
By roaring flood and raving storm,
Enjoy the smooth, the fairy tale,
Or evening song of Teviotdale ;
Then trow you may the tides adjourn,
And nature from her path-way turn ;
The wild-duck drive to mountain tree,
The capperkayle to swim the sea,
The heath-cock to the shelvy shore,
The partridge to the mountain hoar,
And bring the red-eyed patarmigan
To dwell by the abodes of man.

" To end this strife, unruled and vain,
Let all the three be called again ;
Their skill alternately be tried,
And let the Queen alone decide.

Then hushed be jeer and answer proud," —
He said, and all, consenting, bowed.

When word was brought to bard's retreat,
The group were all in dire debate ;
The Border youth (that stranger wight)
Had quarrelled with the clans outright ;
Had placed their merits out of ken,
Deriding both the songs and men.
'Tis said — but few the charge believes —
He branded them as fools and thieves.
Certes that war and woe had been,
For gleaming dirks unsheathed were seen,
The Highland minstrels ill could brook
His taunting word and haughty look.

The youth was chafed, and with disdain
Refused to touch his harp again ;
Said he desired no more renown
Than keep those Highland boasters down ;
Now he had seen them quite outdone,
The south had two, the north but one ;
But should they bear the prize away,
For that he should not, would not play ;
He cared for no such guerdon mean,
Nor for the harp, nor for the Queen.

His claim withdrawn, the victors twain
Repaired to prove their skill again.

The song that tuneful Gardyn sung
Is still admired by old and young,
And long shall be at evening fold,
While songs are sung or tales are told.
Of stolen delights began the song,
Of love the Carron woods among,
Of lady borne from Carron side
To Barnard towers and halls of pride,
Of jealous lord and doubtful bride,
And ended with Gilmorice' doom
Cut off in manhood's early bloom.
Soft rung the closing notes and slow,
And every heart was steeped in woe.

The harp of Ettrick rung again ;
Her bard, intent on fairy strain,
And fairy freak by moonlight shaw,
Sung young Tarn Linn of Carterha.'

Queen Mary's harp on high that hung,
And every tone responsive rung,
With gems of gold that dazzling shone,
That harp is to the Highlands gone ;
Gardyn is crowned with garlands gay,
And bears the envied prize away.
Long, long that harp, the hills among,
Resounded Ossian's warrior song ;
Waked slumbering lyres from every tree
Adown the banks of Don and Dee,
At length was borne, by beauteous bride,
To woo the airs on Garry side.

When full two hundred years had fled,
And all the northern bards were dead,
That costly harp, of wondrous mould.
Defaced of all its gems and gold,
With that which Gardyn erst did play,
Back to Dunedin found its way.

As Mary's hand the victor crowned,
And twined the wreath his temples round,
Loud were the shouts of Highland chief —
The Lowlanders were dumb with grief ;
And the poor Bard of Ettrick stood
Like statue pale, in moveless mood ;
Like ghost, which oft his eyes had seen
At gloaming in his glens so green.
Queen Mary saw the minstrel's pain,
And bade from bootless grief refrain.

She said a boon to him should fall
Worth all the harps in royal hall ;
Of Scottish song a countless store,
Precious remains of minstrel lore,
And cottage, by a silver rill,
Should all reward his rustic skill :
Did other gift his bosom claim,
He needed but that gift to name.

" O, my fair Queen," the minstrel said.
With faltering voice and hanging head,
" Your cottage keep, and minstrel lore —
Grant me a harp, I ask no more.
From thy own hand a lyre I crave,
That boon alone my heart can save."

" Well hast thou asked : and be it known,
I have a harp of old renown
Hath many an ardent wight beguiled ;
'Twas framed by wizard of the wild,
And will not yield one measure bland
Beneath a skill-less stranger hand ;
But once her powers by progress found,
O there is magic in the sound !

" When worldly woes oppress thy heart —
And thou and all must share a part —
Should scorn be cast from maiden's eye,
Should friendship fail, or fortune fly,
Steal with thy harp to lonely brake,
Her wild, her soothing numbers wake,
And soon corroding cares shall cease,
And passion's host be lulled to peace ;
Angels a gilded screen shall cast,
That cheers the future, veils the past.

" That harp will make the elves of eve
Their dwelling in the moon-beam leave,
And ope thine eyes by haunted tree
Their glittering tiny forms to see.
The flitting shades that woo the glen
'Twill shape to forms of living men,
To forms on earth no more you see,
Who once were loved, and aye will be ;
And holiest converse you may prove
Of things below and things above."

" That is, that is the harp for me!"
Said the rapt bard in ecstasy ;
" This soothing, this exhaustless store,
Grant me, my Queen, I ask no more."

O, when the weeping minstrel laid
The relic in his old grey plaid,
When Holyrood he left behind
To gain his hills of mist and wind,
Never was hero of renown,
Or monarch prouder of his crown.
He tript the vale, he climbed the coomb,
The mountain breeze began to boomb ;
Aye when the magic chords it rung,
He raised his voice and blithely sung.
" Hush, my wild harp ! thy notes forbear ;
No blooming maids nor elves are here :
Forbear a while that witching tone,
Thou must not, canst not sing alone.
When Summer flings her watchet screen
At eve o'er Ettrick woods so green,
Thy notes shall many a heart beguile ;
Young Beauty's eye shall o'er thee smile,
And fairies trip it merrily
Around my royal harp and me."

Long has that harp of magic tone
To all the minstrel world been known :
Who has not heard her witching lays
Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes ?
But that sweet bard, who sung and played
Of many a feat and Border raid,
Of many a knight and lovely maid,
When forced to leave his harp behind
Did all her tuneful chords unwind ;
And many ages passed and came
Ere man so well could tune the same.

Bangour the daring task essayed,
Not half the chords his fingers played ;
Yet even then some thrilling lays
Bespoke the harp of ancient days.

Redoubted Ramsay's peasant skill
Flung some strained notes along the hill ;
His was some lyre from lady's hall,
And not the mountain harp at all.

Langhorn arrived from Southern dale,
And chimed his notes on Yarrow vale,
They would not, could not, touch the heart ;
His was the modish lyre of art.

Sweet rung the harp to Logan's hand :
Then Leyden came from Border land,
With dauntless heart and ardour high,
And wild impatience in his eye.
Though false his tones at times might be.
Though wild notes marred the symphony
Between, the glowing measure stole
That spoke the bard's inspired soul.
Sad were those strains, when hymned afar,
On the green vales of Malabar:
O'er seas beneath the golden morn,
They travelled on the monsoon borne,
Thrilling the heart of Indian maid,
Beneath the wild banana's shade. —
Leyden ! a shepherd wails thy fate,
And Scotland knows her loss too late.

The day arrived — blest be the day,
Walter the Abbot came that way ! —
The sacred relic met his view —
Ah ! well the pledge of Heaven he knew !
He screwed the chords, he tried a strain ;
'Twas wild — he tuned and tried again,
Then poured the numbers bold and free,
The ancient magic melody.

The land was charmed to list his lays ;
It knew the harp of ancient days.
The Border chiefs, that long had been
In sepulchres unhearsed and green,
Passed from their mouldy vaults away,
In armour red and stern array,
And by their moonlight halls were seen,
In visor helm, and habergeon.
Even fairies sought our land again,
So powerful was the magic strain.

Blest be his generous heart for aye !
He told me where the relic lay;
Pointed my way with ready will,
Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill ;
Watched my first notes with curious eye,
And wondered at my minstrelsy :
He little weened a parent's tongue
Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.

O could the bard I loved so long,
Reprove my fond aspiring song !
Or could his tongue of candour say,
That I should throw my harp away !
Just when her notes began with skill
To sound beneath the southern hill,
And twine around my bosom's core,
How could we part for evermore !
'Twas kindness all, I cannot blame,
For bootless is the minstrel flame ;
But sure a bard might well have known
Another's feelings by his own !

Of change enamoured, woe the while !
He left our mountains, left the isle ;
And far to other kingdoms bore
The Caledonian harp of yore ;
But, to the hand that framed her true,
Only by force one strain she threw.
That harp he never more shall see,
Unless 'mong Scotland's hills with me.

Now, my loved Harp, a while farewell !

I leave thee on the old gray thorn ;
The evening dews will mar thy swell,
That waked to joy the cheerful morn.

Farewell, sweet soother of my woe !

Chill blows the blast around my head ;
And louder yet that blast may blow,
When down this weary vale I've sped.

The wreath lies on Saint Mary's shore ;
The mountain sounds are harsh and loud ;
The lofty brows of stern Clokmore
Are visored with the moving cloud.

But Winter's deadly hues shall fade
On moorland bald and mountain shaw,
And soon the rainbow's lovely shade
Sleep on the breast of Bowerhope Law ;
Then will the glowing suns of Spring,
The genial shower and stealing dew,
Wake every forest bird to sing,
And every mountain flower renew.

But not the rainbow's ample ring,
That spans the glen and mountain grey,
Though fanned by western breeze's wing,
And sunned by Summer's glowing ray,
To man decayed, can ever more
Renew the age of love and glee !

Can ever second spring restore
To my old mountain Harp and me !

But when the hue of softened green
Spreads over hill and lonely lea,
And lowly primrose opes unseen
Her virgin bosom to the bee ;
When hawthorns breathe their odours far,
And carols hail the year's return ;
And daisy spreads her silver star
Unheeded by the mountain burn ;
Then will I seek the aged thorn,
The haunted wild and fairy ring,
Where oft thy erring numbers borne
Have taught the wandering winds to sing.