640

[This ballad was written by Dr. Leyden, and first published in Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.' The tradition,' says Sir Walter Scott, on which it is founded, derives considerable illustration from the argument of 'Lord Soulis'-(see next ballad.) It is necessary to add, that the most redoubted adversary of Lord Soulis was the chief of Keeldar, a Northumbrian district, adjacent to Cumberland, who perished in a sudden encounter on the banks of the Hermitage. Being arrayed in armour of proof, he sustained no hurt in the combat; but, stumbling in retreating across the river, the hostile party held him down below water with their lances till he died; and the eddy, in which he perished, is still called the Cout of Keeldar's Pool. His grave, of gigantic size, is still pointed out on the banks of the Hermitage, at the western corner of a wall, surrounding the burial-ground of a ruined chapel. As an enemy of Lord Soulis, his memory is revered; and the popular epithet of Cout, i. e. Colt, is expressive of his strength, stature, and activity. The Keeldar Stone, by which the Northumbrian chief passed in his incursion, is still pointed out, as a boundary mark, on the confines of Jed forest and Northumberland. It is a rough insulated mass, of considerable dimensions, and it is held unlucky to ride thrice withershins-in a direction, that is, contrary to the course of the sunaround it. The Brown Man of the Muirs is a Fairy of the most malignant order."]

P

The lady sighed as Keeldar rose:
'Come tell me, dear love mine,
Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows,
Or on the banks of Tyne?'

The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows,

By Tyne the primrose pale;

But now we ride on the Scottish side,

To hunt in Liddesdale.'

'Gin you will ride on the Scottish side,
Sore must thy Margaret mourn;
For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's Lord,
And I fear you'll ne'er return.

The axe he bears, it hacks and tears;
"Tis formed of an earth-fast flint;

No armour of knight, though ever so wight,
Can bear its deadly dint.

No danger he fears, for a charmed sword he wears,

Of adderstone the hilt;

No Tynedale knight had ever such might

But his heart-blood was spilt.'

In my plume is seen the holly green,
With the leaves of the rowan tree;

And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand,
Was formed beneath the sea.

Then Margaret, dear, have thou no fear;
That bodes no ill to me,

Though never a knight, by mortal might,
Could match his gramarye.'—

Then forward bound both horse and hound,
And rattle o'er the vale;

As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees,
Drives on the pattering hail.

Behind their course the English fells

In deepening blue retire;

Till soon before them boldly swells

The muir of dun Redswire.

And when they reacht the Redswire high,

Soft beamed the rising sun;

But formless shadows seemed to fly

Along the muirland dun.

641

And when he reacht the Redswire high,
His bugle Keeldar blew;

And round did float, with clamorous note,
And scream, the hoarse curlew.

The next blast that young Keeldar blew,
The wind grew deadly still;

But the sleek fern with fingery leaves,
Waved wildly o'er the hill.

The third blast that young Keeldar blew,
Still stood the limber fern;

And a wee man, of swarthy hue,

Up started by a cairn.

His russet weeds were brown as heath
That clothes the upland fell;

And the hair of his head was frizzly red,
As the purple heather bell.

An urchin, clad in prickles red,
Clung cowering to his arm;

The hounds they howld, and backward fled,
As struck by Fairy charm.

'Why rises high the stag-hounds' cry,

Where stag-hound ne'er should be? Why wakes that horn the silent morn, Without the leave of me?'

'Brown dwarf, that o'er the muirland strays, Thy name to Keeldar tell!'

The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays Beneath the heather-bell.

'Tis sweet, beneath the heather-bell,
To live in autumn brown;

And sweet to hear the laverocks swell
Far, far from tower and town.

But woe betide the shrilling horn,
The chase's surly cheer!
And ever that hunter is forlorn,
Whom first at morn I hear.'

Says, 'Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe,
In thee we hope nor dread.'-

But, ere the bugles green could blow,

And onward, onward, hound and horse, Young Keeldar's band have gone; And soon they wheel, in rapid course, Around the Keeldar Stone.

Green vervain round its base did creep,
A powerful seed that bore;
And oft, of yore, its channels deep,
Were stained with human gore.

And still, when blood drops, clotted thin,
Hung the grey moss upon,

The spirit murmurs from within,
And shakes the rocking stone.

Around, around young Keeldar wound,
And called, in scornful tone,

With him to pass the barrier ground,
The spirit of the Stone.

The rude crag rockt; 'I come for death,
I come to work thy woe!'-

And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath, That murmured from below.

But onward, onward Keeldar past,
Swift as the winter wind,
When, hovering on the driving blast,
The snow-flakes fall behind.

They past the muir of berries blae,
The stone cross on the lee;

They reacht the green, the bonnie brae,
Beneath the birchen tree.

This is the bonnie brae, the green,

Yet sacred to the brave,

Where, still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Keeldar's grave.

The lonely shepherd loves to mark
The daisy springing fair,

Where weeps the birch of silver bark,

With long dishevelled hair.

The grave is green, and round is spread

The curling lady-fern;

That fatal day the mould was red,

And next they past the chapel there;
The holy ground was by,

Where many a stone is sculptured fair,
To mark where warriors lie.

And here, beside the mountain flood,
A massy castle frownd,

Since first the Pictish race, in blood,
The haunted pile did found.

The restless stream its rocky base
Assails with ceaseless din;
And many a troubled spirit strays
The dungeons dark within.

Soon from the lofty tower there hied
A knight across the vale;

'I greet your master well,' he cried,
From Soulis of Liddesdale.

He heard your bugle's echoing call,
In his green garden bower;
And bids you to his festive hall
Within his ancient tower.'

Young Keeldar called his hunter train:

'For doubtful cheer prepare;

And, as you open force disdain,

Of secret guile beware.

"Twas here, for Mangerton's brave lord

A bloody feast was set,

Who, weetless, at the festal board

The bull's broad frontlet met.

Then ever, at uncourteous feast,
Keep every man his brand;

And, as you mid his friends are placed,
Range on the better hand.

And, if the bull's ill-omened head

Appear to grace the feast,

Your whingers, with unerring speed, Plunge in each neighbour's breast.'

In Hermitage they sat at dine,

In pomp and proud array;

And oft they filled the blood-red wine,