name of Sproat. His wife, Tibby, who lived to a great age, often related the following incidents, especially if the existence of fairies came to be discussed in her presence; and those who knew her upright disposition, would at any time, vouch for her strict adherence to what she conceived to be truth. "Ney, hinnies!" she would say, "Aw'll nit believe but there's fairies, though they dinnit kythe to e'en like ours. Aw mind nicely o' what happent, yin bonnie Spring gloamin', when we hed Tosson mill. The gudeman set off the waitur, seest tu, an' just cam in to get femily wurship: weel, ney seunur hed he ta'en the beuk, than the mill was set a gannin. He leukt at me as if he knaw'd the maitur; but nevur stoppt wuv what he hed i̇' hand, till we raise frev prayer. By this time the mill was stannin again, an' eftur waitin for hauf an hour, or sey, he went in, an' faund a' reet as he hed left it, except that the moutar dish was nearly fou iv a' kinds iv grain but yits. He pat it through the mill: Aw beayk't a cake wuv the meal; an' we a' ate on't, except a dog 'at belang'd yin o' the lads. It leukt up i' wur faces, an' wadnt touch a bit; and, whithur elf-shot or no', nit yin could tell, but the yamphin thing dee't the neist day. "Anithur time the gudeman was plewin out at yin iv the hie fields; and when the gadsman cam' tiv the landin', what soud he see but the greatur pairt iv a cake iv brede, lyin' just where the owsen turnt! He teukt up; it leukt clean like: the gudeman an' him baith tasted it, an' gae the owsen pairt tey. Od, but yin o' them turnt away its head, an' wad hev nane, for a' they coud dey. Weel, that neet, seest tu, the animal grew bad, and dee't within twey days,— a wairnin' tiv us a' that neythur body nor beast soud be owre positive i' their ain way. Nevur doubt, hinnies, iv theye things: doutin' leads aylways to muckle ill, an' ney geud!" Thus it will be seen how readily any event or circumstance, which was difficult to reconcile with natural causes, might be ascribed to fairy agency; and had the following inexplicable occurrence caught the ear of any other person than one of strong mind and strict veracity, what excellent scope it would have furnished towards the shadowing forth of supernatural existence! An old shepherd who lived at a solitary spot called the Swyrefoot on Hyndlee farm in Rulewater, Roxburgshire, bad, on a time, the charge of a hirsel of new-speaned lambs. He arose, from his bed one fine summer night, and went to the end of the house which stood on the brink of a linn, to listen if the lambs were rising, which, by their bleating, he could easily ascertain. All was still and quiet in the direction where they lay; "but," said he, "I heard a great plitch-platching as it were o' some hundreds o' little feet i̇ the stream aboon the house. At first I was inclined to think it was the lambs; but then the gray light o' a simmer's night loot me see the waiter clearly that nae lambs were there-indeed I could see naething ava. I stayed, an stood listenin' an' lookin', no kennin' what to make o't, when a' at yince the plitchplatching' gae owre, an' then there was sic a queer eiry nicher, as o' some hundreds o' creatures laughin', cam frae the upper linn, as left me i' nae doubt that if fairies were still i' the land, they were at the Swyre-foot that night." I come now to the last illustration of this subject, and I account it not the less important, since it affords proof that the ground work of the following ballad is in strict keeping with popular superstition in the upper parts of Roxburghshire. I give it in the words of another old shepherd, Robert Oliver, by name, who lived at Southdean in Jedwater, and died about a dozen years ago. Speakin' o' Fairies," said Robie, "I can tell you about the vera last fairy that ever was seen hereaway. When my faither, Peter Oliver, was a young man, he lived at Hyndlee and herdit the Brockalaw. Weel, it was the custom to milk yowes i' thae days, and my faither was buchtin' the Brockalaw yowes to twae young, lish, clever hizzies ae night after sunset. Nae little daffin' and gabbin,' as the sang sings, gaed on amang the threesome, Ise warrant ye, till at last, just as it begoud to get faughish derk, my faither chanced to look alang the lea at the head o' the bucht, and what does he see but a little wee creaturie, a' clad i' green, and wi' lang hair, yellow as gowd, hingin' round its shoulders, comin' straight for him, whyles gie'n a whink of a greet, and aye atween hands raisin' a queer, unyirthly cry-Ha' ye seen Hewie Millburn? O ha' ye seen Hewie Millburn?' Instead o' making the creaturie ony answer, my faither sprang ower the bucht flake to be near the lasses: he could only say 'Bless us too, what's that?' 'Ha, ha, Patie lad!' quo Bessie Elliot, a free-spoken Liddesdale hempy, 'there's a wife com'd for ye the night, Patie lad.' 'A wife,' said my faither, 'may the Lord keep me frae sic a wife as that; 'and, as he confessed till his deein' day, he was at the time in sic a fear that he fand every hair on his head rise like the birses of a hurcheon.* Weel, there was nae mair said, and the creaturie-it was nae bigger than a three year auld lassie, but feat and tight, lith and limb, as ony grown woman, and its face was the doonright perfection o' beauty ; only there was something wild and unyerthly in its e'en-they couldna be lookit at, and less be describit-weel as I was sayin, it didna molest them farther than it taiglet on about the buchte, ay now and then repeatin its cry, Ha' ye seen Hewie Milburn?' and they could come to nae other conclusion, than that it had tint its companion. When they left the buchte, my faither and the lasses, it followed them hame even into Hyndlee kitchen, where the kitchen-woman offered it yowe brose, but it wadna take onything, and at last a near-do-weel cowherd callant made as if he wad grip it by the nose wi' a pair o' reid het tangs, and it appeared to be offendit, for it left the house and gaed away down the burn side, crying its auld cry, eeryer and waesomer than ever, till it came to a bush o' seggs* where it sauntit an' never was mair seen." It is now necessary that these observations be brought to a close. They occupy more space than was at first intended; and still, I confess I leave them with regret. The will clings instinctively to whatever in former days characterized the land of our birth; and what was told us in our boyhood, and formed food for thoughts which Fancy moulded at will, seem, now that the narrators are no more, like memorials "thrice hallowed," for the sake of those who bequeathed them. Indeed, so far am I swayed with this feeling, that I would willingly exchange a few of the dry, hard outlines of reality, which distinguish the present age, for some of the soft, rich, mellow shades which a brilliant fancy threw so enchantingly around the ideal objects of bygone times. In the present day, the salutary influence of imagination over human existence would appear to have almost lost its charm; and what else, except religion, can be more redolent of intellectual enjoyment? Amongst our forefathers, it was like the breath of Spring to nature, quickening into life not only "mute,” but immaterial "things;" and if the leafless tree and barren rock preserved then, as now, their appearance unchanged, they gave relief to the luxuriance around them, rendering the green blade and blossoming bough still more beautiful and attractive. "The Gloamyne Buchte" first appeared in a small volume, published at Jedburgh in 1824, entitled, "Border Ballads, &c. by James Telfer." It has now been long out of print, and the piece is given here with the author's latest corrections. Those who possess the above small, unassuming work, and can judge of the talent it evinces, will admit that its author has experienced the influence of the poetical mantle, which, as an inheritance, has descended through a long line of venerable ballad minstrels. And here I cannot omit the opportunity of saying that if of late years, declining health and other depressing causes have compelled him partly to "belie the promise of his Spring," they have never, in the slightest degree, shaken his devoted attachment to literature;-only, the inspired penman reminds us that * Sedges. "the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong." Some excuse for these remarks may be claimed, by one, who, if he never bent a knee in adulation of worldly greatness, has ever felt it his duty to render due homage to intellectual worth; and if they bear more home upon Mr. Telfer than may be altogether acceptable to his delicacy, he will be good enough to forgive them, not merely on the score of an intimacy of twenty years standing, but also on account of the human heart having a tendency to pour out its kindliest tribute on those whose merit the world is slow to recognise, and, alas, still slower to reward! The Gloamyne Buchte. HE sun was reid as a furnace mouthe, When bonnye Jeanye Roole she milket the yowes And they were wilde and ill to weare, But the hindmost buchtfu' was inne. O milk them weil, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, And sing to me "The Keache i' the Creel," To put the tyme away. It's fer owre late at e'en, shepherd, Replyed the maiden fair; The fairies wad hear, quo' bonny Jeanye Roole, He's ta'en her round the middel sae sma', The star o' love i' the eastern lifte Was the lynne's deep murmuring fa'. O who can tell of youthfu' love! It is a theme for minstrel meete, It is a thraldome, well I weene, It is a draught to craze the braine, O sing me the sang, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, The angels will listen at yon little holes, I mayna refuse, quo' bonnye Jeanie Roole, Sae weel ye can me winne: And she satte in his armis, and sweetly she sang, And her voice rang frae the lynne. The liltings o' that sylver voice They clearer were than shepherd's pipe The liltings o' that sylver voice, The liltings o' that sylver voice They sprang up-through the welkin wide To the heaven's key-stane blue. Sing on, sing on, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, Now Chryste me save! quo' the bonnye lass, They turned their gaze to the Mourning Cleuch, Where the greeting seemed to be, And there beheld a little greene bairne Come o'er the darksome lea. |