Part 4

The fortress of Dunbar was always a very important one to the Scots. It commanded the coast road from England across the Border to Edinburgh, not only one of the best routes in itself, but one which had the additional advantage to the English that by following it they could keep in touch with their ships. So it is not surprising that many stirring events in history took place at this historic town.

King Edward I. of England won a very important victory at Dunbar during his first invasion of Scotland, and to the place which had witnessed the triumph of the father, his son, Edward II., fled for safety after his defeat at Bannockburn, taking ship thence back to England. In the time of Mary Queen of Scots the fortress was held by Earl Bothwell; from here he consented to the surrender of poor Mary, and here he rested in safety before his final flight to Scandinavia. Oliver Cromwell fought and won at Dunbar his desperate battle with the Scottish Presbyterians, the fate of which for some time hung in the balance. Cromwell considered the place so valuable that he had new harbour works made there, and a portion of his work, forming part of the east pier of the present much larger harbour, is still to be seen.

The last time that Dunbar resounded to the march of an army bent on immediate fight was in 1745, when the boastful English general, Sir John Cope, landed here to engage the Highland followers of Prince Charles Edward (called the "Young Pretender"). Prince Charlie was at Edinburgh, and Dunbar Castle commanded the road into England. Cope asserted that the Highlanders would run away at the mere sight of his army. He marched westward, but was surprised in the early morning by his enemies when near Prestonpans. In less than ten minutes it was the unprepared English who were flying in disorder, utterly routed.

The foregoing is but a brief outline of the stormy history of those grey and ruined battlements overlooking the bleak North Sea at the southernmost point of entrance to the noble Firth of Forth. The mention of these stirring incidents, however, will serve to show what a very important place Dunbar was, and that it was necessary to Scottish safety that a strong hand should have charge of its fortress. We are now to see how at one of the most critical hours a woman was to hold command, and to hold it worthily.

Early in the reign of King Edward III. of England Scottish affairs were in some confusion. King Robert Bruce had lately died, leaving a son, King David II., then only five years old. That great leader and friend of Bruce, Randolph, Earl of Moray, was appointed Guardian of Scotland, but he too soon died. Edward III., anxious to interfere in Scottish affairs, agreed to help Edward Balliol to make himself king of the Scots. So an English army was again in Scotland, and one of the places they were keenest to take was the fortress of Dunbar.

The castle was a very strong one. It was built on a chain of great rocks that stretched out to sea, and could only be reached from land by one road, which was, of course, strictly guarded. The lord of the castle was the Earl of March (the word March in those days meant a border-land), but he was away with the Scottish army, and his wife was in charge of the castle. She was the daughter of that brave Earl of Moray, Guardian of Scotland, who has just been mentioned. The English army was led by an experienced general, the Earl of Salisbury, and he probably thought that he would not have much trouble in overcoming "Black Agnes," as the dark-haired countess was called.

He soon discovered that she was of heroic mould, however, for though he himself led the storming-parties, she on her side, urging on her men in person, hurled back his every attack. The Lady Agnes was quite fearless, and treated the siege as if it were a pastime to be enjoyed. When the English, with machines made for the purpose, hurled heavy stones against the walls, Black Agnes would call one of her maidens with a napkin to wipe off the dust that they made! The biggest of all the English war-machines was called a sow, and when it was brought to the walls the countess cried out in rough jest that it was surrounded by little pigs. At the same moment a mass of rock, which she had caused to be loosened, was hurled by her men on to the English, crushing their sow and many soldiers with it.

At last there seemed a chance for the English. Near midnight a Scot came into their camp, saying that he was ready to betray the castle for a reward. The Earl of Salisbury and some chosen knights rode carefully forward, and found the gate open and the portcullis raised, as the man had promised. But for all that, they doubted if Black Agnes could so far relax her vigilance; wherefore instead of the earl entering first, he sent forward a retainer. His caution was soon justified, for no sooner had this man passed the gate than the portcullis fell. It was a trick to capture the earl, but the Scots were disappointed this time.

The gallant English lord was loud in admiration of the brave Scottish lady who was thus defying him. Once when examining the defences with a lieutenant, an arrow struck his companion dead. "The countess's love-arrows pierce to the heart," said Salisbury, on his return to the camp. Despite the courtly manner in which the well-bred baron referred to the lady, however, he did not relax his efforts to overcome her.

Salisbury's land forces had now surrounded the castle on the land side, while his ships at sea completed the blockade. The garrison was threatened with starvation. Greater and greater became the privations of the heroic defenders. The countess, no less brave than ever, hoped on, though ground for hope grew less and less. She could not bring herself to think of defeat, and her brave, bright face still gave courage and inspiration to all.

Meantime the story of the struggle and difficulties of the defenders was raising up helpers, and Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie got ready a light vessel filled with provisions and manned by forty brave Scots, who only waited for a dark night to make the attempt to steal past the English fleet. They lay hidden by the Bass Rock, a lofty islet at the mouth of the Firth of Forth, some seven or eight miles from Dunbar, until one starless night they stole very cautiously down the wild coast-line of Haddingtonshire, sometimes all but bumping into an English vessel in the dark. Fortune favours the brave, and despite dangers and difficulties they got safely at last to the castle, whose distant light had been their guide. Be sure Black Agnes welcomed them! This proved to be the turning-point of the long siege. With fresh hope, the garrison made a sudden sally on the English, driving back their advance guard, and after five months of fierce but fruitless attempts, Salisbury was compelled to withdraw his forces and admit defeat. Nevertheless, the English were gallant enough to sing their praises of this Scottish heroine; their minstrels made songs in her honour, in one of which Salisbury is made to say:--

"Came I early, came I late, I found Black Agnes at the gate."

*Chapter VIII*

*The Young Tamlane*

"He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, Among the leaves so green."

This tale belongs to the romantic side of the Border minstrelsy, and illustrates some of the common superstitions of olden times concerning elves and fairies. The scene is laid in the Selkirk or Ettrick Forest, a mountainous tract covered with the remains of the old Caledonian Forest. About a mile above Selkirk is a plain called Carterhaugh, and here may still be seen those fairy rings of which it was believed that anyone sleeping upon one will wake in a fairy city. And here was, and perhaps still is, an ancient well. The ballad opens by telling how all young maids were forbidden to come or go by way of Carterhaugh, "for young Tamlane (or Thomalin) is there," and every one going by Carterhaugh is obliged to leave him something in pledge. But the Lady Janet, the fairest of the Selkirk lasses, was obstinate, and declared that she would come or go to Carterhaugh, as she pleased, "and ask no leave of him," since the land there belonged to her by hereditary right. She kilted her green mantle above her knee, and braided her yellow hair above her brow, and off she went to Carterhaugh. When she got to the well, she found the steed of the elfin knight Tamlane standing there, but he himself was away.

"She hadna pu'd a red, red rose, A rose but barely three; Till up and starts a wee, wee man At Lady Janet's knee.

Says--'Why pu' ye the rose, Janet? What gars (makes) ye break the tree? Or why come ye to Carterhaugh, Withouten leave of me?'

Says--'Carterhaugh it is mine ain; My daddy gave it me: I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh, And ask nae leave o' thee.'"

But Tamlane took her by the hand and worked upon her his spells, which no maiden might resist, however proud she might be.

When she came back to her father's hall, she looked pale and wan; and it seemed that she had some sore sickness. She ceased to take any pleasure in combing her yellow hair, and everything she ate seemed like to be her death. When her ladies played at ball, she, once the strongest player, was now the faintest. One day her father spoke out, and said he, "Full well I know that you must have some lover." She said:--

"'If my love were an earthly knight, As he's an elfin grey, I wouldna give my own true love For no lord that ye hae.'"

Then she prinked herself, and preened herself, all by the light of the moon alone, and went away to Carterhaugh, to speak with Tamlane. When she got to the well, she found the steed standing, but Tamlane was away. She had barely pulled a double rose, when up started the elf.

"Why pull ye the rose, Janet?" says he; "why pull ye the rose within this garden green?" "The truth ye'll tell me, Tamlane; were ye ever in holy chapel, or received into the Christian Church?" "The truth I'll tell thee, Janet; a knight was my father, and a lady was my mother, like your own parents. Randolph, Earl Moray, was my sire; Dunbar, Earl March, is thine. We loved when we were children, which yet you may remember. When I was a boy just turned nine, my uncle sent for me to hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, and keep him company. There came a wind out of the north, a deep sleep came over me, and I fell from my horse. The queen of the fairies took me off to yon green hill, and now I'm a fairy, lithe and limber. In Fairyland we know neither sickness nor pain. We quit our body, or repair unto them, when we please. We can inhabit, earth, or air, as we will. Our shapes and size we can convert to either large or small. We sleep in rose-buds, revel in the stream, wanton lightly on the wind, or glide on a sunbeam. I would never tire, Janet, to dwell in Elfland, were it not that every seven years a tithe is paid to hell, and I am so fair of flesh, I fear 'twill be myself. If you dare to win your true love, you have no time to lose. To-night is Hallowe'en, and the fairy folk ride. If you would win your true love, bide at Miles Cross." Miles Cross is about half a mile from Carterhaugh, and Janet asked how she should know Tamlane among so many unearthly knights. "The first company that passes by, let them go. The next company that passes by, let them go. The third company that passes by, I'll be one of those. First let pass the black steed, Janet, then let pass the brown; but grip the milk-white steed, and pull down the rider--

"For I ride on the milk-white steed, And aye nearest the town; Because I was a christened knight, They gave me that renown."

Tamlane went on to explain that his fairy comrades would make every effort to disgust her with her captive. They would turn him in her very arms into an adder; they would change him into a burning faggot, into a red-hot iron goad, but she must hold him fast. In order to remove the enchantment, she must dip him in a churn of milk, and then in a barrel of water. She must still persevere, for they would shape him in her arms into a badger, eel, dove, swan, and, last of all, into a naked man, but

"Cast your green mantle over me, I'll be myself again."

So fair Janet in her green mantle went that gloomy night to Miles Cross. The heavens were black, the place was inexpressibly dreary, a north wind raged; but there she stood, eagerly wishing to embrace her lover. Between the hours of twelve and one she heard strange eldrich sounds and the ringing of elfin bridles, which gladdened her heart. The oaten pipes of the faires grew shrill, the hemlock blew clear. The fairies cannot bear solemn sounds or sober thoughts; they sing like skylarks, inspired by love and joy. Fair Janet stood upon the dreary heath, and the sounds waxed louder as the fairy train came riding on. Will o' the Wisp shone out as a twinkling light before them, and soon she saw the fairy bands passing. She let the black steed go by, and then the brown. But she gripped fast the milk-white steed, and pulled down the rider. Then up rose an eldrich cry, "He's won among us all!" As Janet grasped him in her arms the fairies changed him into a newt, an adder, and many other fantastic and terrifying shapes. She held him fast in every shape. They turned him at last into a naked man in her arms, but she wrapped him in her green mantle. At last her stedfast courage was rewarded, she redeemed the fairies' captive, and by so doing won his true love! Then up spoke the Queen of Fairies, "She that has borrowed young Tamlane has got a stately groom! She's taken the bonniest knight in all my company! But had I known, Tamlane," said the fairy queen, "had I known that a lady would borrow thee, I would have taken out thy two grey eyes, and put in wooden eyes. I would have taken out thy heart of flesh, Tamlane, and put in a heart of stone. I would have paid my tithe seven times to hell ere I would have let her win you away."

*Chapter IX*

*The Gay Goss-Hawk*

In the opening lines of this old ballad Lord William is talking to the goss-hawk, who tells his master that he is looking pale and thin, and seeks to know che cause.

"O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen!" "And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean!

O have ye tint[#] at tournament Your sword, or yet your spear? Or mourn ye for the Southern lass, Whom ye may not win near?"

[#] lost

"I have not tint at tournament My sword, nor yet my spear; But sair[#] I mourn for my true love, Wi' mony a bitter tear.

[#] sore

But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye can baith speak and flee; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, Bring an answer back to me."

"But how sall I your true love find, Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, An eye that ne'er her saw."

"O weel sall ye my true love ken, Sae sune[#] as ye her see; For, of a' the flowers of fair England, The fairest flower is she.

[#] soon.

The red that's on my true love's cheek Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white that is on her breast bare, Like the down o' the white sea-maw.

And even at my love's bour-door There grows a flowering birk;[#] And ye maun sit and sing thereon As she gangs to the kirk.

[#] birch.

And four-and-twenty fair ladyes Will to the Mass repair; But weel may ye my ladye ken, The fairest ladye there."

Lord William has written a love-letter, Put it under his pinion grey; An' he is awa' to Southern land As fast as wings can gae.

And even at the ladye's bour[#] There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sung thereon As she gaed to the kirk.

[#] bower.

And weel he kent that ladye fair Amang her maidens free, For the flower that springs in May morning Was not sae sweet as she.

He lighted at the ladye's yate[#] And sat him on a pin,[#] And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love, Till a' was cosh[#] within.

[#] gate. [#] pine. [#] quiet.

And first he sang a low low note, And syne[#] he sang a clear; And aye the o'erword[#] o' the sang Was--"Your love can no win here."

[#] then. [#] refrain.

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a', The wine flows you amang, While I gang to my shot-window And hear yon bonnie bird's sang.

Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sung yestreen, For weel I ken, by your sweet singing Ye are frae my true love sen."[#]

[#] sent.

O first he sang a merry song, And syne he sang a grave; And syne he picked his feathers grey, To her the letter gave.

"Have there a letter from Lord William; He says he's sent ye three; He canna wait your love langer, But for your sake he'll die."

"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, And brew his bridal ale; And I shall meet him in Mary's Kirk, Lang, lang ere it be stale."

The lady's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu' woman was she; As gin[#] she had taken a sudden brash[#] And were about to die.

[#] if [#] illness.

"A boon, a boon, my father dear, A boon I beg of thee!" "Ask not that haughty Scottish lord, For him ye ne'er shall see.

But for your honest asking else, Weel granted it shall be." "Then, gin I die in Southern land, In Scotland gar[#] bury me.

[#] cause

And the first kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the mass be sung; And the next kirk that ye come to Ye's gar the bells be rung.

And when ye come to St Mary's Kirk, Ye's tarry there till night." And so her father pledged his word, And so his promise plight.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bower As fast as she could fare; And she has drank a sleepy draught, That she had mixed wi' care.

And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek, That was sae bright of blee,[#] And she seemed to be as surely dead As any one could be.

[#] bloom.

Then spake her cruel step-minnie,[#] "Tak ye the burning lead, And drap a drap on her bosome, To try if she be dead."

[#] mother.

They took a drap o' boiling lead, They drapped it on her breast; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "She's dead without the priest."

She neither chattered with her teeth, Nor shivered with her chin; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "There is nae breath within."

Then up arose her seven brethren, And hewed to her a bier; They hewed it frae the solid aik,[#] Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.

[#] oak.

Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell,[#] And every steek[#] that they put in Sewed to a siller bell.

[#] shroud. [#] stitch.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to, They garred the bells be rung; The next Scots kirk that they cam to, They garred fhe mass be sung.

But when they cam to St Mary's Kirk, There stude spearmen all on a row; And up and started Lord William, The chieftaine amang them a'.

"Set down, set down the bier," he said, "Let me look her upon;" But as soon as Lord William touched her hand, Her colour began to come.

She brightened like the lily flower, Till her pale colour was gone; With rosy cheek, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon.

"A morsel of your bread, my lord, And one glass of your wine; For I have fasted these three lang days, All for your sake and mine.

Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers, Gae hame and blaw your horn! I trow[#] ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,[#] But I've gi'en you the scorn.

[#] reckon. [#] harm.

Commend me to my grey father, That wished my soul gude rest; But wae be to my cruel step-dame, Garred burn me on the breast."

"Ah! woe to you, you light woman! And ill death may ye die! For we left father and sisters at hame, Breaking their hearts for thee."

*Chapter X*

*The Corbies*

Two ancient songs have come down to us in which the principal speakers are supposed to be Corbies, carrion-crows or ravens, birds which feed on the flesh of the dead. In both songs the birds discuss a dead knight upon whose rich body they wish to feed. But deep interest lies in the fact that the two song-writers present entirely different views of the case. One appeals to our feelings with a beautiful and touching picture of devotion, the knight's companions proving true to him in death. The other is far more grim, and causes us to shudder at the utter loneliness of the dead man, deserted by all those who in life were beholden to his friendship. Both are powerful and striking examples of ancient vigour and directness.

THE TWA CORBIES

As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane;[#] The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"--

[#] moan.

"In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, Sa we may mak our dinner sweet.

Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,[#] And I'll pick out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, We'll theek[#] our nest when it grows bare.[#]

[#] neck. [#] thatch. [#] Variant reading--"We'll theek our nest--it's a' blawn hare."

Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken where he is gane; O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."

THE THREE RAVENS

There were three ravens sat on a tre, They were as black as they might be:

The one of them said to his mate, "Where shall we our breakfast take?"--

"Downe in yonder greene field, There lies a knight slain under his shield;

"His hounds they lie downe at his feete, So well they their master keepe;

"His hawkes they flie so eagerlie, There's no fowle dare come him nie.

"Down there comes a fallow doe, As great with yong as she might goe.

"She lift up his bloudy hed, And kist his wounds that were so red.

"She got him up upon her backe, And carried him to earthen lake.

"She buried him before the prime, She was dead her selfe ere even song time.

"God send every gentleman, Such hawkes, such houndes, and such a leman."

*Chapter XI*

*Otterbourne and Chevy Chase*

"It fell about the Lammas-tide, When moor-men win their hay, The doughty Douglas bound him to ride Into England, to drive a prey."

The ballads of _Otterbourne_ and _Chevy Chase_ record the Scottish and English versions of a most stubborn Border battle. Whichever of the two contains the greater amount of truth, it is clear that the day was a bloody one, and that, moreover, it was fought on both sides with a chivalrous admiration for the powers of the other which is characteristic of those strife-loving days. Sir Philip Sidney wrote of it: "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet."

The ballad of _Chevy Chase_ is of later date than its rival, and it contains certainly one misstatement of historical fact, since Hotspur outlived the fight at Chevy Chase (1388) and was slain some fifteen years later at the battle of Shrewsbury (1403).