  This legendary ballad is an un-embellished versification of an old tradition, still current in the vicinity of Sewen Shields Castle, in Northumberland. Nought but some dÆmon’s baleful step For years had pass’d those lands, Where (all its former grandeur fled) An ancient castle stands. Where many a lord, and many a knight, And many a baron bold, The meed of valour oft had won, Or tale of love had told. Once, too, it held Northumbria’s king In days of former fame: But now no courteous tenants boasts— And Sewen Shields And there, too, superstition’s spell Had cast its gloom around: And none for years had ever been Within its precincts found— Till Dixon, Who fear’d no mortal arm, Had vow’d to search the site throughout, And find the hidden charm. The morning frown’d: he made th’ attempt; And darker still it grew: And, when he reach’d the castle walls, The owls portentous flew. No well-fed porter now was seen Within the court to wait: And weeds and mould’ring stones appear’d, Where stood the lofty gate. He cross’d the damp deserted halls: He spoke—but all in vain; For Echo, from the ruin’s verge, Return’d his words again. Through many a passage long and dark His weary steps he bent: At length a flight of stairs he saw, And tried the deep descent. He felt unwholesome dewy cold, Yet still pursued his way— Resolv’d ’till he had all explor’d, No more to view the day. At length a gleam of light he saw; A ray of warmth he found: And down the stairs he quickly was, And trod upon the ground; And soon, within a chamber large, A blazing fire perceiv’d; And by its flames a sight he saw, Which else he’d ne’er believ’d. A king and queen, in regal state, Were there by Morpheus chain’d: And o’er the train of courtiers too The same still slumber reign’d. And round the fire some faithful dogs Their fortunes seem’d to share: And, on a table near, a sword And horn were placed there. As from the scabbard then, with might, The blade to draw he tries, As it unsheath’d, with awe he sees The sleepers all arise. Struck with amaze, he put it back.— The monarch, pierc’d with woe, E’er he return’d to death-like sleep, Thus spoke in accents slow: “A curse, O Dixon, light on thee! Why wast thou ever born? Why did thou not the sword draw out, Or wind the bugle horn? “On them our wish’d release depends.— A cent’ry now must fly, Before a mortal can again To break th’ enchantment try.” And now, oppress’d by slumbers dire, He sank, till kinder fate Should send some knight, who might restore His former envied state. For Dixon, who these wonders saw, And hope both rais’d and crush’d, Soon left th’ apartment, as at first, In solemn silence hush’d. And never since, as records say, Has mortal ventur’d there; But all, with superstitious dread, The sleeping king revere. The following old Northumbrian ballad was taken down from the recitation of a woman eighty years of age, mother to one of the miners in Alston-moor, by an agent for the lead mines there, and communicated to the Editor by Robert Surtees, Esquire, of Mainsforth. She had not, she said, heard it for many years; but when she was a girl, it used to be sung at merry makings, “till the roof rung again.” N.B. This ballad was first printed in Scott’s celebrated Poem of MARMION, with several valuable notes; for which see the notes to canto first of that Poem. Hoot awa’, lads, hoot awa’, Ha’ ye heard how the Ridleys, and Thirwalls, and a’, Ha’ set upon Awbony And taken his life at the Deadmanshaugh; There was Willimoteswick, And Hardriding Dick, And Hughie of Hawden, and Will of the Wa’, I canno’ tell a’, I canno’ tell a’, And mony a mair that the deil may knaw. The auld man went down, but Nicol, his son, Ran away afore the fight was begun; And he run, and he run, And afore they were done, There was many a Featherston gat sic a stun, As never was seen since the world begun. I canna’ tell a’, I canna’ tell a’; Some gat a skelp, and some gat a claw; But they gard the Featherstons haud their jaw,— Nicol, and Alick, and a’. Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane; Some had harness, and some gat sta’en. Ane gat a twist o’ the craig; Ane gat a bunch o’ the wame; Symy Haw gat lam’d of a leg, And syne ran wallowing hame. Hoot, hoot, the auld man’s slain outright! Lay him now wi’ his face down:—he’s a sorrowful sight. Janet, thou donot, I’ll lay my best bonnet, Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night. Hoo away, lads, hoo away, Wi’s a’ be hangid if we stay. Tak’ up the dead man, and lay him ahint the bigging; Here’s the Bailey o’ Haltwhistle, Wi’ his great bull’s pizzle, That sup’d up the broo’, and syne—in the piggin. |
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