Robert the Bruce. A poem. ... Illustrated by J. Faed, junr

Preface

. It will, I sincerely trust, be believed that it has been only after great doubtings of mind that this poem is offered to the public. The title explains itself, and I am quite aware that I may be open to the charge of there being but little of a continuous story in the poem. Well, I must take my chance, as hundreds have done before ; but I will honestly say that the book was conceived, worked out, and completed merely as a humble tribute to the immortal memory of our glorious patriot Robert the Bruce, from whose life of high principle, self-denial, courage, and endu rance, and above all, the nobleness of his private character, the best amongst us may well learn a lesson. " There is no living man," says the historian Fordun, " who is able to narrate the story of those complicated misfortunes which befell him in the

PREFACE.

. VI commencement of his war, his frequent perils, his retreats, the care and weariness, the hunger and thirst, the watching and fasting, the cold and naked ness, to which he exposed his person; the exile into which he was driven, the snares and ambushes which he escaped, the seizure, imprisonment, the execution, and utter destruction of his dearest friends and relatives. And if in addition to these almost innumerable and untoward events, which he ever bore with a cheerful and unconquered spirit, any man should undertake to describe his in dividual conflicts and personal successes, those courageous and single-handed combats, in which, by the favour of God and by his own great strength and courage, he would often penetrate into the thickest of the enemy, now becoming the assailant and cutting down all who opposed him ; at another time acting on the defensive, evincing equal talents in escaping what seemed inevitable death ; if any writer shall do this, he will prove, if I am not mis taken, that he had no equal in his own time either in knightly prowess, or in strength and vigour of body !"

(Fordun and Hearne, vol. v. p. 998.) Many friends from all parts of Scotland, England, and abroad have taken the greatest interest in the work, which augurs well for the poem • and I must especially thank the Marquis of Ailsa, the Earl of Selkirk, Earl Brownlow, Sir Andrew Agnew, Mr. McKerlie, F.S.A., and other friends, for much kindly assistance • and to Mr. James Faed, junr.,

PREFACE.

. VII who has executed the beautiful pictures of some of the most lovely scenes in his native district, with that magic pencil that appears to be the " heirloom " of the Galloway Faeds, I am greatly indebted. And as its scenery lies in one of the most gloriously beautiful districts in all Scotland (though comparatively but little known or visited) and as its title is, I am fully aware, the most popular to a Scotchman's ear that could have been chosen, — I am in hopes of the success of the attempt. If I fail, I shall prove only that I have tried to climb too high ; and if, on the other hand, I succeed in this attempt to re-picture some of the gallant deeds of those stirring times, I shall know that such good fortune will be solely due, not to the writer, but to that grand name, at the very mention of which Scottish blood all the world over grows warm, and Scottish hearts beat proudly, and Scottish eyes grow brighter, — the name of our Patriot King !

If Robert the Bruce had wanted any incentive to enable him to love his country more, he had but to gaze upon the glorious scenery of Galloway, Ayrshire, and Dumfries, which, if any of my readers have not visited, I can only advise such to go at once, and enjoy a rich treat for eye and mind. I wish to add that the main incidents of the poem are strictly true, as will be seen by referring to the notes ; in the compilation of which I have studied — and in many cases read through — more than sixty volumes.

PREFACE.

. VIII Before closing these few words I feel I must re cord — sad duty though it be ! — the great and kindly interest taken in the production and success of this poem by his late much lamented Royal Highness, the Duke of Albany, one of his last letters being to wish me success ! Since the author's first attempts at literature when a boy at Eton, the late Prince, — to whom the little volume of the " Birds of Berks and Bucks" was dedicated, by his own desire — had never ceased to take the kindest possible in terest in the work attempted by one of his old boy playfellows ! Alas ! that the kindly heart is for ever still, that the smile of welcome will never be seen on earth again, that the cheerful sympathy he was always so ready to offer to all cannot once more be ours ! How many of his friends can truly feel of that noble soul, — ever forgetting self, ever striving for the weal of others — He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest !

Such a Prince as he was can ill be spared to his country ! But his good deeds will long survive him; and what more noble monument could a Christian Englishman desire? Alexander W. M. Clark Kennedy. Knockgray, Galloway, N.B. July, 1884. CONTENTS. PAGE Dedication I Introduction to Canto 1 5 Canto I. . II Introduction to Canto II 47 Canto II 53 Introduction to Canto III. 95 Canto III. 101 Introduction to Canto IV. ...... 145 Canto IV 153 Notes to Introduction to Canto I. 199 Notes to Canto 1 204 Notes to Introduction to Canto II 229 Notes to Canto II 234 Notes to Introduction to Canto III 261 Notes to Canto III 265 Notes to Introduction to Canto IV. .... 273 Notes to Canto IV 283 ILLUSTRATIONS. Garlies Castle Frontispiece. Loch Dee ...... . To face page 96 The Loch of Trool ,, ,, 3(n memorp of HIS LATE LAMENTED ROYAL HIGHNESS, PRINCE LEOPOLD, Duke of Albany, Earl of Clarence, and Baron Arklow, K.G., K.T., Etc, TO WHOM THIS VOLUME WAS TO HAVE BEEN DEDICATED.

When tinged with gold is Craigangowan's crest,* When on Balmoral falls the ling'ring ray, And nature's world in peace is lull'd to rest, And shades of eve proclaim the close of day, Then is the curlew's cry no longer heard Resounding far across the purple lea, Then hush'd in sleep is voice of latest bird, The owl flits noiseless 'neath the forest tree, And night stands guardian o'er the lovely banks of Dee. And when in calm and peace the Castle lies, And brightly gleams the firelight's cheerful ray, * Craig-an-gowan is the beautifully-wooded, wild moun tain, at the foot of which Balmoral lies. DEDLCATLON. 2 'Tis then I would that some may cast their eyes Upon the pages of my warrior lay. Perchance it happen, as I trust may be, Proud Scottish memories 'round their hearts shall cling, When deeds are told that made our nation free ; And shall not Northern voices fondly sing The praises of the Bruce, our country's patriot King ?

But one there was, alas ! no longer here, Who loved of great and noble deeds to sing, And all those traits a good man holds so dear — Himself of nobleness the very spring ! Yet, as that gentle spirit pass'd away His blameless life a grand example stood ! And till our glorious England's latest day A nation's love shall cling, as meet it should, Around the honour'd name of Leopold the Good.

Introduction

TO CANTO

I. Dedicated to The Countess of Dalkeith.* All hail ! my lords and ladies gay, Fair damsels, place your work away ; Your leisure take, my lords, I pray, And hearken to a martial lay ! Though sung by minstrel all untaught, I crave your patience, as I ought ; And grant me grace and give me time, So, haply, I may suit my rhyme To each brave knight and lady's ear, Who loves of warrior deeds to hear. I'll feats of ancient valour trace, Give names of ancient fame a place ; And may ye, as ye turn your glance Athwart the fields of old romance, Pause at my tale of Celtic strife, When cheap was held each warrior's life. * Now Duchess of Buccleuch and Queensberry. b The bard shall sing of knights of old, And many a legend rare unfold ; Of haughty deeds of arms shall tell, And how the conquering gallants fell, Or how their vessels stemm'd the tide, And terror spread both far and wide, And how, in days of Scotland's fame, The Southron quaked at Bruce's name.

His theme is love where ladies dwell — For minstrels know of love the spell ; And loves the bard to find that art Of his can stir a maiden's heart : To mark the bosom rise and fall More quickly at the harper's call. And when he sings to dame or maid, His feeble efforts well repaid Shall be, if he may haply trace The crimson o'er the lovely face, May note the colour come and go, As turns his lay from joy to woe, Until he dreams, through bodice thin, He sees the beating heart within. Fair ladies, at thy kind command My harp shall feel its master's hand ; An', if I have my way and will, Your gentle hearts shall wildly thrill At tales of knightly valour told, As Scotland thrill'd in days of old ; And fain would I your bosoms move, And fill them full of patriot love • Yet let me ask you, ladies gay, Ere is commenced my longer lay — Can Scotland's soil again produce A patriot staunch as Robert Bruce ?

Nor shall the minstrel's art be vain, Should times of danger fall again ; And if our children, yet unborn, Like him should love the hunter's horn, And love, like him, our mountains hoar, Where wander'd once the savage boar, And love the foaming torrent's roar, And love to roam the ocean shore, And hail with joy each lovely dell Where grows in pride the heather bell, And fresh and lasting pleasure take From river, mountain, glen and lake ; And, if his songs of love or raid Can move the breast of gentle maid, If wreaths of bay fair dames shall twine, As damsels did in olden time — A tribute fit for knight and squire, Who fought for love and not for hire, Who rode for Scotland's name and pride, For her they bled, for her they died ! And if your sons in future time Should stumble on my humble rhyme, And when they hear the battle rage Should think upon mine ancient page, And listen to these olden lays That tell of Scotland's stormy days, Proud were the bard, and fill'd with joys — If verse of his can charm the boys, Could send the colour mantling high, Could nerve the arm and fire the eye, Could point the way to deeds of fame, Add lustre fresh to Scotland's name, And prompt to valour yet to be, And future feats of chivalry !

But sooth, 'tis time to end my say, And to commence the warrior's lay. E'en should I search our Scotland o'er, Her western to her eastern shore, From John o' Groat's and Pentland sea, To where the Tweed is flowing free, I could not, gentle lady, find A name more suited to my mind, Or fitter for the theme than thine Wherewith to grace my martial line. For, when that fatal deed was wrought, When Bruce in flight his safety sought, When English Edward's wrath was high, And Papal thunders rent the sky, When Comyn's blood was running red (b) And Royal Bruce from vengeance sped — Where found he first secure retreat, Where laid he first in slumber sweet r His wearied body, spent with toil, But on Drumlanrig's friendly soil ? And did not Tynron's woods provide Asylum meet wherein to hide ? And did not Bruce's spirit dream, Fair Nith, beside thy winding stream ? — Could fairer friend the minstrel see As patron for his lay than thee ?

But would had been the happier lot Of these old times — well nigh forgot, And those fair scenes I fain must try To paint in fancy, 'fore your eye — To be portray'd by vanish'd hand Of one who's gain'd the silent land ; Whose roving footsteps here have trod ; Who loved our Scotland's heathy sod. My Galloway, 'twere well for thee Had happ'd what now may never be— Oh ! could from that far distant shore Our loved Sir Walter wend once more, How deftly would that honour'd hand Paint all thy gems, my native land ! Would he had heard thy torrents roar, Had wander'd 'mong thy mountains hoar Had oft'ner trod thy verdant plains, Had felt the charm thy beauty claims, Had gazed upon those purple hills, Had linger'd by thy trickling rills, Had thought upon thy former ills, B io ROBERT THE BRUCE. Till, all his patriot feelings loose, He praised the mountain home of Bruce, And pictured forth each famous spot With master pen ! Immortal Scott ! ■9

CANTO I. STANZA

I. It was an eve in fair July, Soft o'er the hill the breezes sigh A requiem for departing light, A welcome for approaching night. All nature's face was bright and gay, So sweet had been that summer's day. Still all aglow is yonder sky That points the roving stranger's eye Where sank the sun in peace to rest In gold and crimson in the west. How swift away the daylight flies ! The weary traveller homeward hies, The eagle seeks the mountain crest, The falcon hurries to his nest, The deer have sought the forest shade, And owls flit noiseless down the glade. The mallard's quack is heard on high, The heron's screech alarms the sky, As wing they on their rapid flight To some far lake to pass the night. dwell How fast the shadows fall around, And gather o'er the rocky ground, As darkness casts her dusky veil On lake and river, hill and dale. n. But soon a gentler, fairer ray Shall chase the gathering gloom away.

The clouds disperse on every side, And stars are twinkling far and wide ; The summer moon, in silver dight, Is softly shining full and bright Upon the crest of Curleywee, And on the bosom of Loch Dee (a). On rugged Craigencallie's height Plays 'mongst the rocks the fitful light On many an ancient forest tree, And on the slopes of high Craiglee. On grim Cairngarroch's summit grey The moonbeams dance in merry play ; Where loves the prowling wolf to roam, And where the eagle makes its home, And where those mighty granite rocks Are refuge for the mountain fox, And where the " brock " * at peace may As doth the buzzard on Craignell. For bird and beast must surely be A paradise by wild Loch Dee (b). * The badger. in. Though every bird had sought its nest And every beast had gone to rest Though each gay flower its petals closed And the glistening lake in peace reposed, Though nature's face was calm and still, And the evening air was damp and chill, Though silence reign'd on the lonely hill — Yet it was not silence all around ; And is it a goblin or mortal sound That falls on the listening ear ?

That the wind wafts over the waters bright, And startles the sleeper whose dreams are light, And who can be wandering here ? For, beyond the shore of the slumbering lake, And from out yon forest of briar and brake Ring peals of laughter and voices gay, Till echo replies mid the boulders grey, And the laughter is borne on the breeze away. And are those figures of mortal birth Who boldly walk o'er the slumbering earth, And are they warriors armed for war ? Or goblin spirits from Lochricarr (c) ? And what is their quest in the forest so free, And for whom do they seek by the banks of the Dee ? But the moon shone down on those figures tall Where a cliff loom'd grimly high, And their shadows threw on its rocky wall As they swiftly pass'd it by ; And those ghostly shadows a secret told, 'Twere plain in truth to see They were neither goblins nor warriors bold, But simply maidens three.

But why have they quitted their far-away home, And whither away do those damsels roam ? When elves are abroad and bad spirits have power, Why wander they here at this evening hour ? For a maid must be hardy and fearless and bold Who travels by moonlight alone on the wold. iv. Those ladies fair, at the dawn of day, Were many and many a mile away ; They come from a wild and a distant shore, But now their journey is well nigh o'er : And now their labour is well nigh done, And the goal that they seek for is nearly won. They have waded many a stream across, And have traversed many a yielding moss, Where the beautiful sundew grows humbly around, Luxuriant over the treacherous ground ; And the eye of the traveller may readily know That plant which creeps so fair and low, For however hot be the summer's day, How fierce soe'er be the noontide's ray, What though the blistering sun may scorch All nature bare with his flaming torch, Though the drooping flowers be bending low, Though every blade may his fierceness show ?

A pearly drop of dew shall still (d) The bosom of the sundew fill. v. They have look'd on the beautiful chasm of Ness(E), Where gambols the Doon in its bonnie caress ; And they quitted the glen when the glistening dew The bracken had cover'd with beauty anew ; They have traversed the forest of Buchan through, They have come from Loch Doon, and its waters blue (f) ; From the isle where the osprey has chosen a home ; From those beautiful woods where the roe-deer roam, Where the black-cock basks by the sunny shore, And the sea-gulls hover the wavelets o'er. They have held their way by the Gala's stream, And startled the deer from his noonday dream : They have driven the fox from his mountainous lair, They have broken the rest of the slumbering hare, They have look'd on the grouse as he swiftly flew past Pursued by the peregrine following fast, They have gazed on the eagle when circling on high, And he seem'd but a speck in the ocean of sky When he wing'd to his home on the Carlin's grey cairn (g), To the nest where he carried the warrior's bairn, That he stole from its cradle one midsummer noon As it lay 'neath the walls of the Castle of Doon (h), But the mother climb'd up, and the eaglets were slain, And she won back her darling uninjured again.

VI. They have sped o'er the heather so bonnie and free, They have rested 'neath many a glorious tree, They have look'd on the Millfore all dreary and cold (i), And the dark Craig of Dee so fantastic and bold. In wildness and grandeur each mountain was dress'd, And the raven croak'd loudly on Corserine's breast, And the scream of the curlew was eerie and shrill. But the locks of the Dungeon lay dreary and still ; And, save for the track of the wandering boar, Of life not a trace by their desolate shore, Where the Dungeon of Buchan its summit uprears(j), And the Merrick, gigantic, in glory appears. And their footsteps to-day have been wandering far, From the braes of Craigmulloch to grim Mullwharchar, To grey Millyea with its rampart of rocks (k), The home of the badger, the wolf, and the fox.

And far have they stray'd by the Cooran's dark bank, Through desolate marshes where rushes are rank ; But those maidens, though weary, have won to Craiglee, And now they may rest by the shores of Loch Dee. The moon shone down on those maidens three As they sat by the stem of an ancient tree, And oh what a picture of beauty rare They made as they silently rested there ! For each was fair and in tartans dress'd, But one was more lovely than all the rest, And meeter for palace than mountainous wild, But a maiden of impulse she was from a child, Who loved by the glen and the river to roam, And call'd the wild mountains her joy and her home Oh ! fair she was for the eye to see, As fitted a damsel of high degree. For her gentle birth you may quickly trace In her open brow and her lovely face, The tiny hand, the little feet, The ear so small, but white and neat, The parting lips as rubies red, The slender neck and the noble head, And ruddy cheek and raven hair Combined to make her doubly fair.

Her lissom waist was passing small, Her gently sloping figure tall, Her step was light as mountain deer Her voice fell sweetly on the ear, And something in her deep blue eye And something in her lightest sigh Impression to a stranger gave That she was gentle, good, and brave, > And under every girlish art She kept concealed a loving heart. VIII. Such maids as this — if Heaven sent, By Heaven's God were surely meant To aid their fellows here below, And strive to lessen pain and woe ; To stand beside the dying bed, To smooth the sufferer's fever'd head, To cheer the widow's deep distress With that sweet look of tenderness ; To take the orphans by the hand, And tell them of a better land, And teach them how to fight the foe As through this dreary world they go ; And tell the weak to pray to Him Who cheers the road when eyes are dim How bravely they must toil and wait If they would gain the golden gate ; And beat the powers of darkness down, If they would win a golden crown.

Such one as this, our peerless maid, Though all in homely garb array'd, More maid, more angel, who may say, And yet so lovely, young, and gay ? Rest they awhile beside the oak That guards them with its leafy cloak Of branches spread aloft. But soon the loveliest maiden spoke, And the sweet silence gently broke In accents low and soft. " Haste, Marj', haste to yonder brae That overlooks the little bay, And, Mary, see thou quickly find The shallop for our use design'd, Close hid amongst the heather's bloom It rests as in a purple tomb ; And bracken, with its mantle green, Hath o'er it spread its leafy screen. Let Agnes seek the paddles three Concealed beneath the Druid's tree (l), And quickly launch our vessel gay, And let us o'er the waves away. The hour was ten that Gilbert gave For the royal feast in Bruce's cave. 'Twould ill become us here to stay, So hasten, maidens, haste away."

With willing hands and quiet skill They haste to do their lady's will, For well they love their mistress dear, And they have served her many a year. The paddles soon fair Agnes finds, And Mary next the rope unbinds That holds the shallop to a stake Amongst the heath that skirts the lake. They turn the little vessel o'er, And drag her gaily to the shore, And now the light and graceful boat Doth bravely on the waters float ; And then that crew of maidens three Went speeding o'er the waves of Dee. x. A gently sighing zephyr's breath Came softly o'er the purple heath, Came soft across the rippling lake, And followed in the shallop's wake, As speeds the boat upon her way Toward the small sequester'd bay, Upon the eastern shore. And mann'd by such a fairy crew The bark as if enchanted flew, And seem'd to cleave the waters through With proud delight, as if she knew What lovely freight she bore.

As one fair maid their course doth guide With paddle o'er the shallop's side, The second plies with ready hand The oars to speed them to the land. The Lady in the bow reclines, And heather 'mid her hair entwines. That duty o'er, to cheer their way, stood She next her harp prepares to play : And soon each chord melodious rings Responsive to the air she sings. XI. Song. Row, maidens, row ; And deftly ply the oar 'Neath the waters so bright In the merry moonlight Till we win to the eastern shore. Merrily, merrily row, For our bark is stout and strong, 'Tis made from a mighty pine that In ancient Buchan's fairy wood Full many a year and long. Then row, sisters, row, And swiftly the boat shall fly, As our way we take O'er the bonnie lake, Beneath the starlit sky. Then row, maidens mine And cleave we the dancing wave, For the feast is spread And the wine runs red In the royal Bruce's cave. ?

XII. Song {continued.) Merrily maidens row, And urge our boat along While the harp's gay sound Is echoing round In the chorus of the song. Then merrily maidens row, Let us haste to the trysting cave, For the minstrel's art Shall cheer the heart Of Bruce and his followers brave. Oh speed the bonnie bark, Nor let our voyage be long, We will cheer, as of old, Those warriors bold, With Scotland's patriot song ! Maidens, cease your toil, For the bark hath reach'd the strand Our shallop moor To the rocky shore And lightly spring to land ! The song had ceased, but still the strain Came floating o'er the waves again, And echoed round the lovely bay, Then died upon the breeze away. The maidens quickly gain the shore, Each hides amongst the heath her oar, And then pursues the rocky road That leads to Bruce's wild abode.

Amidst the boulders scatter'd round No pathway had those damsels found, But so familiar was the way They oft had trod in glare of day ; And as they breast the rugged hill They hear a sudden sound and shrill ; It is a blast of bugle horn Across the sleeping mountain borne ; And ere the notes have died away A figure clad in tartans gay Is swiftly hast'ning down the brae. With joy he greets those ladies fair, Who gladly yield them to his care And as they climb the rocky height The merry jest and laughter light And maiden song are echoing round, And hill and glen repeat the sound, While converse gay the road beguiles. Their youthful faces beam with smiles, For each admires their warrior guide, His noble face, his stately stride, And think they in their hearts with pride A gallant groom for lovely bride.

The fairest of those damsels three Seems to enjoy his company, And when they reach the cavern door She deems the journey quickly o'er. Gilbert Haye that warrior's name (m)- That lady — Lady Alice Graem. XIV. A stranger's eye no door discerns. Amazed were stranger when he learns Yon boulder on its pivot turns If press'd by hand within. For did not seem yon massive block But portion of the granite rock? Till, answering Gilbert's hasty knock, They heard a merry din, As open wide that boulder swung, And peals of noisy laughter rung Out on the evening air. But then a voice an order gave, And silence reign'd within the cave, And all stood waiting there. And next a cheer, as was their use, Announced their King — it is the Bruce. '» XV. That royal warrior, bending low, His guest receives with courtly show, And then with stately step and slow He leads her to a rocky chair That form'd their seat of honour there.

It was a rugged granite block, Hewn roughly from the cavern's rock. Her maidens follow close behind Until a vacant seat they find. Their table was a mighty oak That ne'er had felt the woodman's stroke, But long in Buchan's forest grown (n), Until, by wintry blast o'erthrown, It fell beside the cavern's door ; And, dragg'd across the rocky floor By sturdy arms, it lies in pride, And forms a table strong and wide. In fashion rough 'twas rudely shaped, By many a weapon hack'd and scraped, But now its surface polish'd bright Reflects the torches' cheering light. The mighty board is quickly spread, Their hasty benison is said, Then fall to work those men of might, And soon the viands fade from sight. For warriors need an ample feast, " They fight the worst who eat the least ! It was a rough repast and rude, c Well fitted to that solitude Which reign'd around the cavern hoar, Where lately dwelt the savage boar, Where slumbering bats had loved to rest, And where the owl had made her nest ; But now it serves a nobler use, And shelter gives to gallant Bruce.

XVI. If lonely traveller here should roam And glance within this rustic home, He sure would say— if guess he gave — That this were mountain robbers' cave, And yon the robber's numerous band, And pray for mercy at their hand. The cavern walls from roof to ground With warlike spoils were hung around, While here and there in vacant space Were trophies of the merry chase. There, high above the royal head, Saint Andrew's banner gay is spread, Its silver cross athwart the roof, Of Bruce's patriot love a proof. And keen and bright and sharp'd for use, The mighty sword of Robert Bruce Beside his massive axe was hung, That many a valiant deed had done ; And various weapons rest beneath, And many a brand and many a sheath, R0BER7 THE BRUCE. 27 While bills -and spears are ranged around. Or lie neglected on the ground ; And flaming torches lend their light To make the banquet gay and bright.