  The Poet Gay—The "Spell"—Hobnelia—Lubberkin going to Town—A Maiden fine—Spells resorted to—Marking the Ground, and turning three times round—Hempseed as a Charm—Valentine Day—A Snail used in Divination—Burning Nuts—Pea-cods as a Spell—Ladybird sent on a Message of Love—Pippin Parings—Virtue of United Garters—Love Powder—Gipsies' Warnings—Knives sever Love—Story of Boccaccio—Apparition of a Deceased Lover—Poems by Burns—"Address to the Deil"—"Tam o' Shanter." John Gay, the old English poet, writes in his Spell: "Hobnelia, seated in a dreary vale, In pensive mood rehearsed her piteous tale; Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan, And pining Echo answers groan for groan. I rue the day, a rueful day I trow, The woeful day, a day indeed of woe! A maiden fine bedight he kept in love; The maiden fine bedight his love retains, And for the village he forsakes the plains. Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear, Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. When first the year I heard the cuckoo sing, And call with welcome note the budding spring, I straightway set a-running with such haste, Deb'rah that won the smock scarce ran so fast; Till, spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown, Upon a rising bank I sat adown, Then doff'd my shoe, and, by my troth, I swear, Therein I spy'd this yellow frizzled hair, As like to Lubberkin's in curle and hue, As if upon his comely pate it grew. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. At eve last summer no sleep I sought, But to the field a bag of hempseed brought, I scattered round the seed on every side, And three times in a trembling accent cry'd: This hempseed with my virgin hand I sow, Who shall my true love be, the crop shall mow. I straight look'd back, and if my eyes speak true, With his keen scythe behind me came the youth. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind Their paramours with mutual chirping find, I early rose, just at the break of day, Before the sun had chas'd the stars away; Afield I went, amid the morning dew, To milk my kine (for so should housewives do). The first I spy'd, and the first swain we see, In spite of fortune shall our true love be; See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take, And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear forsake? With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. Last May-day fair I searched to find a snail That might my secret lover's name reveal; For always snails nearest sweetest fruit abound. I seiz'd the vermin, home I quickly sped, And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread. Slow crawl'd the snail, and, if I right can spell, In the soft ashes mark'd a curious L: O may this wonderous omen luck prove! For L is found in Lubberkin and love. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. Two hazel nuts I threw into the flame, And to each nut I gave a sweetheart's name, This with the loudest bounce me sore amaz'd, That in a flame of brightest colour blaz'd. As blaz'd the nut, so may thy passion grow, For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. As pea-cods once I pluck'd, I chanc'd to see One that was closely fill'd with three times three, Which, when I crop't, I safely home convey'd, And o'er the door the spell in secret laid, My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new, While from the spindle I the fleeces drew; The latch mov'd up, when who should first come in, But in his proper person—Lubberkin. I broke my yarn, surpris'd the sight to see, Sure sign that he would break his word with me. Eftsoons I joined it with my wonted slight, So may his love again with mine unite. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. This lady-fly I take from off the grass, Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass. Fly, lady-bird, north, south, or east, or west, Fly where the man is found that I love best. He leaves my hand; see, to the west he's flown, To call my true love from the faithless town. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. I pare my pippin round and round again, My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain, I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head, Upon the grass a perfect L I read; Than what the paring marks upon the green. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. This pippin shall another trial make, See from the core two kernels brown I take; This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn, And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne. But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, A certain token that his love's unsound, While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last; O were his lips to mine but joined so fast! With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee; He wist not when the hempen string I drew. Now mine I quickly doff of inkle blue; Together fast I tye the garters twain, And while I knit the knot, repeat the strain: Three times a true-love's knot I tye secure, Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. As I was wont, I trudged last market day To town with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. I made my market long before 'twas night, My purse grew heavy, and my basket light. Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went, And in love powder all my money spent; Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers, When to the ale-house Lubberkin repairs, The golden charm into his mug I'll throw, And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. But hold: our Lightfoot barks and cocks his ears, O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears. He comes, he comes, Hobnelia's not bewray'd, Nor shall she, crown'd with willow, die a maid. He vows, he swears he'll give me a green gown; O dear! I fall adown, adown, adown. "Last Friday's eve, when, as the sun was set, I, near yon stile, three sallow gipsies met, Upon my hand they cast a poring look, Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook; They said that many crosses I must prove, Some in my worldly gain, but most in love. Next morn I missed three hens and our old cock, And off the hedge two pinners and a smock. I bore these losses with a Christian mind, And no mishap could feel while thou wert kind; But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn, I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn. Help me, ye gipsies, bring him home again, And to a constant lass give back her swain. Have I not sat with thee full many a night, When dying embers were our only light, When every creature did in slumber lie, Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I? No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move, While I alone am kept awake by love. Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake I bought the costly present for thy sake: Could thou spell o'er the posy on thy knife, And with another change thy state of life? If thou forget'st, I wot I can repeat, My memory can tell the verse so sweet: 'As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine, So is thy image on this heart of mine.' But woe is me! such presents luckless prove, For knives, they tell me, always sever love." In the story of Isabella, by Boccaccio, there are touching incidents of the apparition of a deceased lover appearing to his mistress. The tale is thus rendered by Keats: "It was a vision. In the drowsy gloom, The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot Lorenzo stood and wept: the forest tomb Had marr'd his glossy hair, which once could shoot Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute Had made a miry channel for his tears. Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spoke; For there was striving in its piteous tongue, To speak as when on earth it was awake, And Isabella on its music hung: Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung; And through it moaned a ghostly under-song, Like hoarse night gusts sepulchral biers among. Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof From the poor girl by magic of their bright, The while it did unthread the horrid woof Of the late darkened time—the murd'rous spite Of pride and avarice—the dark pine roof In the forest—and the sodden turfed dell, When, without any word, from stabs it fell. Saying moreover, 'Isabel, my sweet! Red whortle-berries droop above my head, And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet, Around me beeches and high chesnuts shed Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat Comes from beyond the river to my bed: Go shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 'I am a shadow now, alas! alas! Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling Alone: I chaunt alone the holy mass, While little sounds of life around me knelling, And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, Paining me through: these sounds grow strange to me, And thou art distant in humanity.'" Let us now see what Burns, the never-to-be-forgotten Scottish poet, says in his Address to the Deil and Tam o' Shanter. In his own felicitous way he brings out the belief the ancient inhabitants had of visible devils, water-kelpies, ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. "O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches. Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel? Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame; Far kend and noted is thy name: An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles ranging like a roarin' lion For prey, a' holes and corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin', Tirling the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend grannie say, In lanely glens you like to stray; Or where auld ruined castles grey Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my grannie summon To say her prayers, douce honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin', thro' the boortrees comin', Wi' heavy groan. The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Wi' you, mysel', I got a fright, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristled hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick—quaick— Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, On whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en By witching skill; An' dawtet, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill. Then mystic knots mak great abuse, On young guidman, fond, keen, and crouse, When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thaws dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An' 'nighted trav'llers are allured To their destruction. An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is; The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell, The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yaird, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' a' the soul of love they shared, The raptured hour, Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird In shady bower! Then you, ye auld, sneck-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog., An' played on man a cursÈd brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruined a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds and reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him in your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs and blotches did him gall Wi' bitter claw, An' lowsed his ill-tongued wicked scaw, Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin' A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin' To your black pit; But faith, he'll turn a corner, jinkin', And cheat you yet. O wad ye tak a thought and men'! Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken— Still hae a stake— I'm wae to think upon yon den, Even for your sake!" TAM O' SHANTER. "When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou an' unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, an' styles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter; (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a toun surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.) O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the L—d's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale: Ae market night Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely: And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread— You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed! Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm.— Nae man can tether time nor tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride— That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattlin' showers rose on the blast: Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd; That night a child might understand The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg— A better never lifted leg— Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was 'cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.— Before him Doon pours all his floods! The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil.— The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillon brent new frae France, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge: He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip sleight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns, A thief, new cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape: Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queens A' plump an' strapping, in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was a winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore! For monie a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd monie a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear). Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie: Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! But here my muse her wing man cour: Sic flights are far beyond her power: To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was an' strang), An' how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, An' thought his very een enrich'd: Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, 'Weel done, Cutty sark!' And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market crowd, When 'Catch the thief!' resounds aloud,— So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch screetch and hollow. In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! Kate soon will be a waefu' woman! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie press'd, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought aff her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin caught her by the rump, An' left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son take heed: Whene'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty sarks run in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare." |
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