  There is no native of Scotland who does not wax poetical when St. Mary's Loch is named. Round it and the district of which it is the crown and glory there centres more of legend, ballad, poem and sentiment than is to be found anywhere else, and in good sooth it is only necessary to visit the place to realize the halo of love and admiration which has been thrown around it. Then it is also the centre of a famous angling district, and in 'Tibbie Shiel's' the 'contemplative man,' when his day of enjoyment is done, will find a tidy bed, and eke some jovial companion, who will make the evening hilarious as the day has been exhilarating. If the tourist has visited the Grey Mare's Tail, described in the preceding chapter, the same coach that has brought him from Moffat will bring him on to this scene of singular pastoral beauty. St. Mary's Loch presents sufficient space to make up a fine landscape, and is not too large to be taken in at one glance. In its still beauty it has its chief charm:— 'You see that all is loneliness, And silence aids—though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills, In summer tide, so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear to sleep. Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude.' The square keep seen in the foreground is Dryhope Tower, the home of 'Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow.' Here we at once plunge into the old ballad and foray, for she married Wat of Harden, The old kirk and kirkyard of St. Mary's were not less remarkable than the loch:— 'Lord William was buried in St. Marie's Kirk, Lady Margaret in Marie's Quire, Out o' the lady's grave there grew a red rose And out o' the knight's a brier.' Thus ends the tale of the Douglas Tragedy. Less famous people are buried there, as another voice tells us, 'For though, in feudal strife a foe Hath laid our lady's chapel low, Yet still beneath the hallowed soil The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid Where erst his simple fathers prayed.' The river Yarrow flows through St. Mary's Loch, having passed through the small Loch o' the Lowes before reaching the larger water, 'Tibbie Shiel's' lying between the two lochs. Yarrow is well known to every reader of Wordsworth, and we must pass rapidly over what might be suggested by that single word, so soft in sound, so suggestive of the old-world lore of this magical district. Of every nook and dell, hill and valley, stream and loch, there are stories and songs without end, everywhere 'You hear sweet melodies Attuned to some traditionary tale.' Heroes and bold outlaws, fair women and sorrowing widows, strifes and plunderings, genealogies and traditions—the Vale of Yarrow and its surrounding hills and streams abound in these. All hushed are they now, and the once warlike burgh of Selkirk is a thriving manufacturing town, but while the 'Flowers o' the Forest' are, in one sense 'a' wede away,' the natural attractiveness of the district remains, with all the stories of byegone times to add to its interest for romantic or poetic minds. |
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