The Antiquary — Complete by Walter Scott (fun to read .txt) 📕

And I will sing of Glenallan’s Earl That fought on the red Harlaw. “The cronach’s cried on Bennachie, And doun the Don and a’, And hieland and lawland may mournfu’ be For the sair field of Harlaw.—

I dinna mind the neist verse weel—my memory’s failed, and theres unco thoughts come ower me—God keep us frae temptation!”

Here her voice sunk in indistinct muttering.

“It’s a historical ballad,” said Oldbuck, eagerly, “a genuine and undoubted fragment of minstrelsy! Percy would admire its simplicity— Ritson could not impugn its authenticity.”

“Ay, but it’s a sad thing,” said Ochiltree, “to see human nature sae far owertaen as to be skirling at auld sangs on the back of a loss like hers.”

“Hush! hush!” said the Antiquary—“she has gotten the thread of the story again. “—And as he spoke, she sung—

“They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each horse’s head, And a good knight upon his back. “—

“Chafron!” exclaimed the Antiquary,—“equivalent, perhaps, to cheveron;—the word’s worth a dollar,”—and down it went in his red book.

“They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile, but barely ten, When Donald came branking down the brae Wi’ twenty thousand men. “Their tartans they were waving wide, Their glaives were glancing clear, Their pibrochs rung frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear. “The great Earl in his stirrups stood That Highland host to see: Now here a knight that’s stout and good May prove a jeopardie: “What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, That rides beside my reyne, Were ye Glenallan’s Earl the day, And I were Roland Cheyne? “To turn the rein were sin and shame, To fight were wondrous peril, What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, Were ye Glenallan’s Earl?’

Ye maun ken, hinnies, that this Roland Cheyne, for as poor and auld as I sit in the chimney-neuk, was my forbear, and an awfu’ man he was that dayin the fight, but specially after the Earl had fa’en, for he blamed himsell for the counsel he gave, to fight before Mar came up wi’ Mearns, and Aberdeen, and Angus.”

Her voice rose and became more animated as she recited the warlike counsel of her ancestor—

“Were I Glenallan’s Earl this tide, And ye were Roland Cheyne, The spur should be in my horse’s side, And the bridle upon his mane. “If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten, Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men. “My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, As through the moorland fern, Then neer let the gentle Norman blude Grow cauld for Highland kerne.’”

“Do you hear that, nephew?” said Oldbuck;—“you observe your Gaelic ancestors were not held in high repute formerly by the Lowland warriors.”

“I hear,” said Hector, “a silly old woman sing a silly old song. I am surprised, sir, that you, who will not listen to Ossian’s songs of Selma, can be pleased with such trash. I vow, I have not seen or heard a worse halfpenny ballad; I don’t believe you could match it in any pedlar’s pack in the country. I should be ashamed to think that the honour of the Highlands could be affected by such doggrel. “—And, tossing up his head, he snuffed the air indignantly.

Apparently the old woman heard the sound of their voices; for, ceasing her song, she called out, “Come in, sirs, come in—good-will never halted at the door-stane.”

They entered, and found to their surprise Elspeth alone, sitting “ghastly on the hearth,” like the personification of Old Age in the Hunter’s song of the Owl,* “wrinkled, tattered, vile, dim-eyed, discoloured, torpid.”

* See Mrs. Grant on the Highland Superstitions, vol. ii. p. 260, for this fine translation from the Gaelic.

“They’re a’ out,” she said, as they entered; “but an ye will sit a blink, somebody will be in. If ye hae business wi’ my gude-daughter, or my son, they’ll be in belyve,—I never speak on business mysell. Bairns, gie them seats—the bairns are a’ gane out, I trow,”—looking around her;—“I was crooning to keep them quiet a wee while since; but they hae cruppen out some gate. Sit down, sirs, they’ll be in belyve;” and she dismissed her spindle from her hand to twirl upon the floor, and soon seemed exclusively occupied in regulating its motion, as unconscious of the presence of the strangers as she appeared indifferent to their rank or business there.

“I wish,” said Oldbuck, “she would resume that canticle, or legendary fragment. I always suspected there was a skirmish of cavalry before the main battle of the Harlaw.” *

* Note H. Battle of Harlaw.

“If your honour pleases,” said Edie, “had ye not better proceed to the business that brought