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THE AULD MAN.

1.

Down Lyddal glen the stream leaps glad ;
The lily blooms on Lyddal lea;
The daisy glows on the sunny sod;

The birds sing loud on tower and tree :
The earth laughs out, yet seems to say,
Thy blood is thin, and thy locks are gray.

2.

The minstrel trims his merriest string,

And draws his best and boldest bow;
The maidens shake their white brow-locks,

And go starting off with their necks of snow.

I smile, but my smiling seems to say,
Thy blood is thin, and thy locks are gray.

3.

The damsels dance; their beaming eyes
Shower light and love, and joy about;
The glowing peasant answers glad,

With a merry kiss, and mirthsome shout.
I leap to my legs, but well-a-day,

Their might is gone, and my locks are gray.

4.

A maiden said to me with a smile,

Though past thy hour of bridal bliss,
With hoary years, and pains, and fears,
A frozen pow, and a frosty kiss,
Come down the dance with me, I pray,
Though thy blood be thin, and thy locks be gray.

5.

Sweet one, thou smilest; but I have had,
When my leaf was green, as fair as thee
Sigh for my coming, and high-born dames
Have loved the glance of my merry ee;
But the brightest eye will lose its ray,
And the darkest locks will grow to gray.

6.

I've courted till the morning star

Wax'd dim ere came our parting time;
I've walk'd with jewel'd locks, which shone
I' the moon when past her evening prime;
And I've ta'en from rivals rich away
The dame of my heart, though my locks be gray.

The audience applauded the song, but I was too glad of the opportunity which its singing gave me of contemplating Walter Lyddal, to give that regard to the rhyme which probably it merited. The representative of this ancient border name was seated on an antique settle, or couch of carved oak, placed apart from the crowd, and cushioned deep with sheep skins. He was muffled up to the chin in a dark gray cloak, formed from the wool of his own flocks; his head was bare, and sprinkled about the temples with long white

hairs. His form was perfectly erect, but the weight of sixty-five years, many of them full of sorrow, had done much to pull down a stately and powerful frame, and had given a palsied and tremulous motion to the hands and head. He rested him over a staff, and his large dark and inqui sitive eyes roamed incessantly among the strange faces which thronged his hearth. Dogs of the chase, and shepherd's curs, and curs of low degree, lay stretched on the floor, while the beams and walls were hung with dried flesh and fish, and all the pre

served and pickled dainties of a pastoral establishment.

At last the old man fixed his eyes on me, and making something like an effort to rise, said: "You are welcome, Sir, to Lyddalcross; welcome to such cheer as a frail old man can give you. For the days are far away that were once here when I had three fair sisters to make a stranger's seat soft, and minister to his cheer. These days are all gone, Sir, so even come and draw yere seat near me, and tell any strange tidings ye may have heard; for I am one who hears nought, save what the kindness of strangers gathers for my gratification." Two of his dogs, as he spoke, came and caressed me like an old acquaintance; while one of the domestics, who evidently did not confound me with the mendicants who thronged the floor, placed a seat for my accommodation: so down I sat, without farther ceremony; and thus I addressed the old man. "I have sought your hearth, and accept your welcome, and I doubt not to find the truth of the ancient Dumfries-shire proverb, Aught's gude frae the hand of a Lyddal."" "And so ye're a quoter of old proverbs," said the laird to me; "I like ye all the better for that; the man who can apply a good old proverb with discretion is no' a man to be met with under every blue bonnet; and that's a proverb too. Halbert, bring hither the drinking loom of Lyddalcross, the ancient fairy cup; and bring it full of wine: keep your ale for the self-sufficient citizens of cannie Carlisle; this is a lad of better mettle, his face reminds me of old acquaintance and firm friendship, and we shall taste wine together this night, were it only in honour of his looks."

The old domestic advanced with the wine cup and the flagon; and the laird, seizing the former by the two massy ears, placed it beside him, poured it full of wine, and eyeing me for a moment, renewed his discourse. "I ken ye well, your name is Halliday, descended from Thomas Halliday, the sister's son of Sir William Wallace, the bauld and homely Halliday; one of thy ancestors was Walter Halliday, marshal of the English minstrels to Edward the Fourth; thy grandfather and I in the days of

our youth were soothfast friends, and the Lyddals and Hallidays have ridden side by side in battle when Eden water ran red with blood; it's an old name and a good," and elevating the cup as he spoke, he drained the wine at a draught. The cup was instantly replenished, and placed in my hands; and even while I raised it to my lips, no wise slow in doing honour to my entertainer, I could not help admiring the exquisite beauty of the sculpture with which its sides were adorned. The artist had represented a fairy procession, and the elfin people on horseback and foot moved along to the sound of supernatural minstrelsy. The earth seemed green under their feet, the sky sparkled with stars above them, and the whole romantic scene seemed charmed into life and beauty.

"It is a bonnie cup," said my entertainer," and has belonged to the name of Lyddal since the harrying of Holmecultrum-house, when the strife was between Bruce and Baliol. The common people, who seldom err in traditionary matters, aver it to be the work of elves, and call it the fairy cup of Lyddalcross. But I keep ye from your wine, Sir, and ye'll admire the vessel not the less when ye have proved its contents." I obeyed, and emptied a cup of wine which was worthy of wetting the lips of Queen Mab herself. "Laird of Lyddal,” I said, “ if the cup be beautiful, the wine is delicious; and I much question if more exquisite wine ever sparkled in the cup when presented to the Princess of Fairy-land herself, by the hands of ELPHIN IRVING, who was seven years cupbearer to the elves, in the vale of Corrie water." "Seven years cupbearer," said Walter Lyddal, chaffing his huge hands together with joy,

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seven years cup-bearer to the Queen of Elfland; I never heard of the tale before. I'll warrant it's an odd one and a wild:-Elphin Irving! I have never heard of the youth, so take another tasting of wine, and tell me, and have the discretion to speak out, for my hearing is less sharp than it should be. But, first, let me tell ye the use and wont of Lyddalcross. I dwell apart from mankind, and my main delight is in listening to traditional stories; tales which are full

of the failings and the feelings, the beliefs, the superstitions, the sins, and the actions of man: my hearth is crowded, as ye may see, with curious old-world sort of people like myself, and many a well-imagined story is related for my edification.

Such is the use and wont of my hall. If ye lacked invention and knowledge in old matters, the name of Halliday should float ye over family rules; yet, for the sake of old friendship, let me hear the tale of ELPHIN IRVING, the FAIRIES' CUP-BEARER."

TALE THE FIRST.

ELPHIN IRVING, THE FAIRIES' CUPBEARER.

The lady kilted her kirtle green

A little aboon her knee,

The lady snooded her yellow hair

A little aboon her bree,

And she's gane to the good green wood

As fast as she could hie.

And first she let the black steed pass,

And syne she let the brown,

And then she flew to the milk-white steed,
And pull'd the rider down:

Syne out then sang the queen o' the fairies,
Frae 'midst a bank of broom,
She that has won him, young Tamlane,
Has gotten a gallant groom.

The romantic vale of Corriewater, in Annandale, is regarded by the inhabitants, a pastoral and unmingled people, as the last border refuge of those beautiful and capricious beings the fairies. Many old people, yet living, imagine they have had intercourse of good words and good deeds with the "good folk," and continue to tell, that in the ancient of days the fairies danced on the hill, and revelled in the glen, and showed themselves like the mysterious children of the deity of old among the sons and daughters of men.

Their visits to the earth were periods of joy and mirth to mankind, rather than of sorrow and apprehension. They played on musical instruments of wonderful sweetness and variety of note, spread unexpected feasts, the supernatural flavour of which overpowered on many occasions the religious scruples of the presbyterian shepherds, performed wonderful deeds of horsemanship, and marched in midnight processions, when the sound of their elfin minstrelsy charmed youths and maidens into love for their persons and pursuits; and more than one family of Corriewater have augmented the numbers of the elfin chivalry. Faces of friends and relatives, long since doomed to the battle-trench, or the deep sea, have been recognized

Old Ballad.

by those who dared to gaze on the fairy march. The maid has seen her lost lover, and the mother her stolen child; and the courage to plan and achieve their deliverance has been possessed by, at least, one border maiden. In the legends of the people of Corrievale there is a singular mixture of elfin and human adventure, and the traditional story of the Cupbearer to the Queen of the Fairies appeals alike to our domestic feelings and imagination.

In one of the little green loops, or bends, on the banks of Corriewater, mouldered walls, and a few stunted wild plum-trees, and vagrant roses, still point out the scite of a cottage and garden. A well of pure spring-water leaps out from an old tree-root before the door, and here the shepherds, shading themselves in summer from the influence of the sun, tell to their children the wild tale of Elphin Irving, and his sister Phemie; and, singular as the story seems, it has gained full credence among the people where the scene is laid.

"Iken the tale and the place weel," interrupted an old Scottishwoman, who, from the predominance of scarlet in her apparel, seemed to have been a follower of the camp, "Iken them weel, and the tale's as

true as a bullet to its aim, and a spark to powder. Oh bonnie Corriewater, a thousand times have I pulled gowans on its banks wi' ane that lies stiff and stark on a foreign shore in a bloody grave:" and sobbing audibly, she drew the remains of a military cloak over her face, and allowed the story to proceed.

When Elphin Irving and his sister Phemie were in their sixteenth year, for tradition says they were twins, their father was drowned in Corriewater, attempting to save his sheep from a sudden swell, to which all mountain streams are liable; and their mother, on the day of her husband's burial, laid down her head on the pillow, from which, on the seventh day, it was lifted to be dressed for the same grave. The inheritance left to the orphans may be briefly described: seventeen acres of plow and pasture land, seven milk cows, and seven pet sheep, (many old people take delight in odd numbers;) and to this may be added, seven bonnet-pieces of Scottish gold, and a broad sword and spear, which their ancestor had wielded with such strength and courage in the battle of Dryfe-sands, that the minstrel who sang of that deed of arms, ranked him only second to the Scotts and Johnstones.

The youth and his sister grew in stature and in beauty. The brent bright brow, the clear blue eye, and frank and blythe deportment of the former, gave him some influence among the young women of the valley; while the latter was no less the admiration

of the young men, and at fair and dance, and at bridal, happy was he who touched but her hand, or received the benediction of her eye. Like all other Scottish beauties, she was the theme of many a song; and while tradition is yet busy with the singular history of her brother, song has taken all the care that rustic minstrelsy can of the gentleness of her spirit, and the charms of her per

son.

"Now I vow," exclaimed a wandering piper, " by mine own honoured instrument, and by all other instruments, that ever yielded music for the joy and delight of mankind, that there are more bonnie songs made about fair Phemie Irving than about all other dames of Annandale, and many of them are both high and bonnie. A proud lass maun she be, if her spirit hears; and men say, the dust lies not insensible of beautiful verse; for her charms are breathed through a thousand sweet lips, and no farther gone than yestermorn, I heard a lass singing on a green hillside what I shall not readily forget. If ye like to listen ye shall judge; and it will not stay the story long, nor mar it much, for it is short, and about Phemie Irving:" and accordingly he chaunted the following rude verses, not unaccompanied by his honoured instrument, as he called his pipe, which chimed in with great effect, and gave richness to a voice which felt better than it could express.

FAIR PHEMIE IRVING.

1.

Gay is thy glen, Corrie,

With all thy groves flowering;

Green is thy glen, Corrie,

When July is showering;

And sweet is yon wood,

Where the small birds are bowering,

And there dwells the sweet one

Whom I am adoring.

2.

Her round neck is whiter

Than winter when snowing,

Her meek voice is milder

Than Ae in its flowing;

The glad ground yields music
Where she goes by the river,
One kind glance would charm me
For ever and ever.

3.

The proud and the wealthy
To Phemie are bowing;
No looks of love win they
With sighing or sueing;
Far away maun I stand
With my rude wooing,
She's a flow'ret too lovely
To bloom for my pu'ing.
4.

O were I yon violet,

On which she is walking;
O were I yon small bird,
To which she is talking;
Or yon rose in her hand,
With its ripe ruddy blossom;
Or some pure gentle thought,
To be blest with her bosom.

This minstrel interruption, while it established Phemie Irving's claim to grace and to beauty, gave me additional confidence to pursue the story

But minstrel skill, and true love tale, seemed to want their usual influence, when they sought to win her attention; she was only observed to pay most respect to those youths who were most beloved by her brother; and the same hour that brought these twins to the world, seemed to have breathed through them a sweetness and an affection of heart and mind which nothing could divide. If, like the virgin queen of the immortal poet, she walked "in maiden meditation fancy free," her brother, Elphin, seemed alike untouched with the charms of the fairest virgins in Corrie. He plowed his field, he reaped his grain, he leaped, he ran, and wrestled, and danced, and sang, with more skill, and life, and grace, than all other youths of the district; but he had no twilight and stolen interviews: when all other young men had their loves by their side he was single, though not unsought; and his joy seemed never perfect, save when his sister was near him. If he loved to share his time with her, she loved to share her time with him alone, or with the beasts of the field, or the birds of the air. She watched her little flock late, and she tended it early; not for the sordid love of the fleece, unless it was to make mantles for her brother, but with the look of one who had joy in its company. The very wild creatures, the deer and the

hares, seldom sought to shun her approach, and the bird forsook not its nest, nor stinted its song, when she drew nigh; such is the confidence which maiden innocence and beauty inspire.

It happened one summer, about three years after they became orphans, that rain had been for awhile withheld from the earth, the hillsides began to parch, the grass in the vales to wither, and the stream of Corrie was diminished between its banks to the size of an ordinary rill. The shepherds drove their flocks to marshy lands, and lake and tarn had their reeds invaded by the scythe, to supply the cattle with food. The sheep of his sister were Elphin's constant care; he drove them to the moistest pastures during the day, and he often watched them at midnight, when flocks, tempted by the sweet dewy grass, are known to browze eagerly, that he might guard them from the fox, and lead them to the choicest herbage. In these nocturnal watchings he sometimes drove his little flock over the water of Corrie, for the fords were hardly ankledeep, or permitted his sheep to cool themselves in the stream, and taste the grass which grew along the brink. All this time not a drop of rain fell, nor did a cloud appear in the sky.

One evening, during her brother's absence with the flock, Phemie sat at her cottage door, listening to the bleatings of the distant folds, and the lessened murmur of the water of Corrie, now scarcely audible beyond its banks.

Her eyes, weary with

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