Part 7

Spalding tells us that it was reported that, the morning after the fire, Lady Frendraught, riding on a small nag, and with no attendants but a boy to lead her horse, came weeping to the Bog, desiring to speak with the marquis, but was refused. The Huntly-Gordons, the Earl of Errol (brother of Viscountess Melgum), and many other friends held a council, and after serious consideration came to the conclusion that the fire “could not come by chance, sloth, or accident, but was plotted and devised of set purpose;” Frendraught, his lady, his friends and servants, one or other, knowing thereof. The marquis, however, was resolved not to revenge himself “by way of deed,” but to invoke the laws. Frendraught, as far as we can see, desired a legal inquiry no less than Huntly. He addressed himself to the Lord Chancellor and to the Privy Council, and offered to undergo any form of trial, and, delays occurring, he repeated to the Council his wish to have “that hidden mystery brought to a clear light.” Examinations and prosecutions, extended to the middle of the year 1634, failed to fix the guilt of the fire on him or anybody, although John Meldrum, on the strength of some threats which he had uttered, was wrongfully convicted of the act and was executed.[25]

#A.# The date is the eighteenth of October, new style for the eighth. When Gordon and Rothiemay (having convoyed Frendraught safely home) are on the point of returning, Lady Frendraught urges them to stay, in token of good feeling between Huntly and her husband. Lord John is quite disposed to comply, but Rothiemay says that his horse has been tampered with since their coming, and he fears that he is fey. After the regular evening-mass of ballads (which would have suited Lady Frendraught, a concealed Catholic, but not her husband), Lord John and Rothiemay are laid in one chamber, an arrangement which would have allowed both to escape, as Robert Gordon did, who slept in his master’s room. Lord John wakes with the smoke and heat, and rouses Rothiemay. The doors and windows are fastened. Rothiemay goes to the ‘wire-window,’ and finds the stanchions too strong to be dealt with. He sees Lady Frendraught below, and cries to her for mercy; her husband killed the father, and now she is burning the son. Lady Frendraught is sorry that she must burn Lord John in order to burn Rothiemay, but there is no help; the keys are cast in the deep draw-well.[26] [Robert] Gordon, who has escaped though the keys were in the well, calls to his master to jump from the window; he will catch him in his arms. His master answers that no fire shall part him and Rothiemay, and besides, the window is fast. He throws his finger-rings down, to be given to his lady. When the servant goes home to his mistress, she reproaches him for coming back alive and leaving his master dead. She tears off the clothes which her maid puts on her, exclaiming that she won a sore heart the day she was married, and that that day has returned (which is not easy to understand: see Appendix).

#B.# This fragment represents Lady Frendraught as being very importunate with Lord John: she presses him three times over to stay, and promises him a morning-gift of lands if he will comply; by a perversion of tradition, Strathbogie, which had been in his family three hundred years, and which, further on, he offers to give her if she will let him out. Finding that he cannot escape (perhaps stanza 7 should come later), Lord John takes out his psalm-book and sings three verses, with ‘God end our misery’ at each verse’s end. In 9 he sees his elder brother, Lord George, from the window, and asks what news he has, but a defect conceals from us the point of this passage. Stanza 16 seems to belong to Lord John’s wife.

#C.# When the gentlemen are in their saddles, ready to ride away, Lady Frendraught, on her bare knees, begs them to remain, and promises them a firlot of red gold if they will. When everybody has gone to bed, the doors are locked and the windows shut. The reek begins to rise and the joists to crack; Lord John betakes himself to the window, and finds the stanchions too strong to break. He goes back and wakens Rothiemay, and proposes to him to praise the Lord in the fifty-third psalm,[27] for there is treason about them. He calls to Lady Frendraught, walking on the green, for mercy; she replies that the keys are in the well, and the doors were locked yesterday. He reproaches her for burning her own flesh. George Chalmers (who really escaped, though lodged in the third story) is described as leaping the ditches and coming, from without, to Rothiemay’s help, and Colin Irving (the Colin Ivat of Spalding, who was burnt) as doing the same in behalf of Lord John, to whom he calls to jump into his arms. Lord John is burning, and there is little more left of him than his spirit; but he throws down a purse of gold for the poor and his rings for his wife. Lady Rothiemay comes in the morning to cry vengeance on Frendraught, who has betrayed the gay Gordons, killed her lord, and burnt her son.[28]

#D.# “‘There are some intermediate particulars,’ Mr Boyd says, ‘respecting the lady’s lodging her victims in a turret or flanker which did not communicate with the castle.’ ‘This,’ adds he, ‘I only have from tradition, as I never heard any other stanzas besides the foregoing.’ The author of the original, we may perceive, either through ignorance or design, had deviated from the fact in supposing Lady Frennet’s husband to have been slain by Lord John’s father.” Ritson, p. 36.@

It may be noted that three of the most tragical of the Scottish historical ballads are associated with the name of Gordon: the Burning of Towie, as we might call ‘Captain Car,’ No 178, through Adam Gordon, uncle of the first marquis of Huntly; the Burning of Donibristle, known as ‘The Bonny Earl of Murray,’ No 181, of which the responsibility is put upon the marquis (then earl) himself; and the Burning of Frendraught, in which his son perished.

* * * * *

A

#a.# Motherwell’s Minstrelsy, p. 161, from a MS. of Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe. #b.# Maidment’s North Countrie Garland, p. 4; “long preserved by tradition in Aberdeenshire, and procured from an intelligent individual resident in that part of Scotland.”

1 The eighteenth of October, A dismal tale to hear How good Lord John and Rothiemay Was both burnt in the fire.

2 When steeds was saddled and well bridled, And ready for to ride, Then out it came her false Frendraught, Inviting them to bide.

3 Said, ‘Stay this night untill we sup, The morn untill we dine; ‘Twill be a token of good greement ’Twixt your good lord and mine.’

4 ‘We’ll turn again,’ said good Lord John; ‘But no,’ said Rothiemay, ‘My steed’s trapand, my bridle’s broken, I fear the day I’m fey.’

5 When mass was sung, and bells was rung, And all men bound for bed, Then good Lord John and Rothiemay In one chamber was laid.

6 They had not long cast off their cloaths, And were but now asleep. When the weary smoke began to rise, Likewise the scorching heat.

7 ‘O waken, waken, Rothiemay! O waken, brother dear! And turn you to our Saviour; There is strong treason here.’

8 When they were dressed in their cloaths, And ready for to boun, The doors and windows was all secur’d, The roof-tree burning down.

9 He did him to the wire-window, As fast as we could gang; Says, Wae to the hands put in the stancheons! For out we’ll never win.

10 When he stood at the wire-window, Most doleful to be seen, He did espy her Lady Frendraught, Who stood upon the green.

11 Cried, Mercy, mercy, Lady Frendraught! Will ye not sink with sin? For first your husband killed my father, And now you burn his son.

12 O then out spoke her Lady Frendraught, And loudly did she cry; ‘It were great pity for good Lord John, But none for Rothiemay; But the keys are casten in the deep draw-well, Ye cannot get away.’

13 While he stood in this dreadful plight, Most piteous to be seen, There called out his servant Gordon, As he had frantic been:

14 ‘O loup, O loup, my dear master! O loup and come to me! I’ll catch you in my arms two, One foot I will not flee.

15 ‘O loup, O loup, my dear master! O loup and come away! I’ll catch you in my arms two, But Rothiemay may lie.’

16 ‘The fish shall never swim in the flood, Nor corn grow through the clay, Nor the fiercest fire that ever was kindled Twin me and Rothiemay.

17 ‘But I cannot loup, I cannot come, I cannot win to thee; My head’s fast in the wire-window, My feet burning from me.

18 ‘My eyes are seething in my head, My flesh roasting also, My bowels are boiling with my blood; Is not that a woeful woe?

19 ‘Take here the rings from my white fingers, That are so long and small, And give them to my lady fair, Where she sits in her hall.

20 ‘So I cannot loup, I cannot come, I cannot loup to thee; My earthly part is all consumed, My spirit but speaks to thee.’

21 Wringing her hands, tearing her hair, His lady she was seen, And thus addressed his servant Gordon, Where he stood on the green.

22 ‘O wae be to you, George Gordon! An ill death may you die! So safe and sound as you stand there, And my lord bereaved from me.’

23 ‘I bad him loup, I bad him come, I bad him loup to me; I’d catch him in my arms two, A foot I should not flee. &c.

24 ‘He threw me the rings from his white fingers, Which were so long and small, To give to you, his lady fair, Where you sat in your hall.’ &c.

25 Sophia Hay, Sophia Hay, O bonny Sophia was her name, Her waiting maid put on her cloaths, But I wot she tore them off again.

26 And aft she cried, Ohon! alas! alas! A sair heart’s ill to win; I wan a sair heart when I married him, And the day it’s well returnd again.

* * * * *

B

Kinloch MSS, V, 399, in the handwriting of John Hill Burton.

* * * * * *

1 ‘Ye’ll stay this night wi me, Lord John, Ye’ll stay this night wi me, For there is appearence of good greement Betwixt Frendraught and thee.’

2 ‘How can I bide, or how shall I bide, Or how can I bide wi thee, Sin my lady is in the lands of Air, And I long till I her see?’

3 ‘Oh stay this night wi me, Lord John, Oh stay this night wi me, And bonny[’s] be the morning-gift That I will to you gie.

4 ‘I’ll gie you a Strathboggie lands, And the laigh lands o Strathray, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

5 ‘Ye’ll stay this night wi me, Lord John, Ye’ll stay this night wi me, And I’ll lay you in a bed of down, And Rothiemay you wi.’

6 When mass was sung, and bells were rung, And a’ men bun to bed, Gude Lord John and Rothiemay In one chamber were laid.

* * * * * *

7 Out hes he taen his little psalm-buik, And verses sang he three, And aye at every verse’s end, ‘God end our misery!’

8 The doors were shut, the keys were thrown Into a vault of stone, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

9 He is dune him to the weir-window, The stauncheons were oer strong; There he saw him Lord George Gordon Come haisling to the town.

10 ‘What news, what news now, George Gordon? Whats news hae you to me? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

11 He’s dune him to the weir-window, The stauncheons were oer strang; And there he saw the Lady Frendraught, Was walking on the green.

12 ‘Open yer doors now, Lady Frendraught, Ye’ll open yer doors to me; And bonny’s be the mornin-gift That I shall to you gie.

13 ‘I’ll gie you a’ Straboggie lands, And the laigh lands o Strathbrae, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

14 ‘Now there’s the rings frae my fingers, And the broach frae my breast-bone; Ye’ll gae that to my gude ladye . . . . . . .

* * * * * *

15 ‘How can I loup, or how shall I loup? How can I loup to thee? When the blood is boiling in my body, And my feet burnin frae me?’

* * * * * *

16 ‘If I was swift as any swallow, And then had wings to fly, I could fly on to fause Frendraught And cry vengeance till I die.’

* * * * *

C

From a note-book of Dr Joseph Robertson: “procured in the parish of Forgue by A. Scott; communicated to me by Mr John Stuart, Aberdeen, 11 October, 1832.”

1 It was in October the woe began— It lasts for now and aye,— The burning o the bonny house o fause Frendraught, Lord John and Rothiemay.

2 When they were in their saddles set, And ready to ride away, The lady sat down on her bare knees, Beseeching them to stay.

3 ‘Ye’s hae a firlot o the gude red gowd, Well straiket wi a wan; And if that winna please you well, I’ll heap it wi my han.’

4 Then out it spake the gude Lord John, And said to Rothiemay, ‘It is a woman that we’re come o, And a woman we’ll obey.’

5 When a’ man was well drunken, And a’ man bound for bed, The doors were lockd, the windows shut, And the keys were casten by.

6 When a’ man was well drunken, And a’ man bound for sleep, The dowy reek began to rise, And the joists began to crack.

7 He’s deen him to the wire-window, And ruefu strack and dang; But they would neither bow nor brack, The staunchions were so strang.

8 He’s deen him back and back again, And back to Rothiemay; Says, Waken, waken, brother dear! Waken, Rothiemay!

9 ‘Come let us praise the Lord our God, The fiftieth psalm and three; For the reek and smoke are us about, And there’s fause treason tee.

10 ‘O mercy, mercy, Lady Frendraught! As ye walk on the green:’ ‘The keys are in the deep draw-well, The doors were lockt the streen.’

11 ‘O woe be to you, Lady Frendraught! An ill death may you die! For think na ye this a sad torment Your own flesh for to burn?’

12 George Chalmers was a bonny boy; He leapt the stanks so deep, And he is on to Rothiemay, His master for to help.

13 Colin Irving was a bonny boy, And leapt the stanks so deep: ‘Come down, come down, my master dear! In my arms I’ll thee kep.’

14 ‘Come down? come down? how can I come? How can I come to thee? My flesh is burning me about, And yet my spirit speaks to thee.’

15 He’s taen a purse o the gude red gowd, And threw it oer the wa: ‘It’s ye’ll deal that among the poor, Bid them pray for our souls a’.’

16 He’s taen the rings off his fingers, And threw them oer the wa; Says, Ye’ll gie that to my lady dear, From me she’ll na get more.

17 ‘Bid her make her bed well to the length, But no more to the breadth, For the day will never dawn That I’ll sleep by her side.’

18 Ladie Rothiemay came on the morn, She kneeled it roun and roun: ‘Restore your lodgers, fause Frendraught, That ye burnd here the streen.

19 ‘O were I like yon turtle-dove, Had I wings for to flie, I’d fly about fause Frendraught Crying vengeance till I die.

20 ‘Frendraught fause, all thro the ha’s, Both back and every side; For ye’ve betrayd the gay Gordons, And lands wherein they ride.

21 ‘Frendraught fause, all thro the ha’s; I wish you’d sink for sin; For first you killd my own good lord, And now you’ve burnd my son.

22 ‘I caredna sae muckle for my good lord I saw him in battle slain, But a’ is for my own son dear, The heir o a’ my lan.

23 ‘I caredna sae muckle for my good lord I saw him laid in clay, But a’ is for my own son dear, The heir o Rothiemay.’

* * * * *

D

Ritson’s Scotish Songs, 1794, II, 35; remembered by the Rev. Mr Boyd, translator of Dante, and communicated to the editor by J. C. Walker.

1 The reek it rose, and the flame it flew, And oh! the fire augmented high, Until it came to Lord John’s chamber-window, And to the bed where Lord John lay.

2 ‘O help me, help me, Lady Frennet! I never ettled harm to thee; And if my father slew thy lord, Forget the deed and rescue me.’

3 He looked east, he looked west, To see if any help was nigh; At length his little page he saw, Who to his lord aloud did cry:

4 ‘Loup doun, loup doun, my master dear! What though the window’s dreigh and his? I’ll catch you in my arms twa, And never a foot from you I’ll flee.’

5 ‘How can I loup, you little page? How can I leave this window hie? Do you not see the blazing low, And my twa legs burnt to my knee?’

* * * * *

E

Kinloch MSS, VI, 27, in the handwriting of Joseph Robertson when a youth.

Now wake, now wake you, Rothiemay! I dread you sleep oer soun; The bed is burnin us about And the curtain’s faain down.

* * * * *

#A. a.#

23, 24. _The_ &c. _at the end denote that the servant repeated the substance of 15–18 and of 20, which, however, was not written out._

#b.#

1^1. day of.

1^4. Were. 2^1, 5^1, 5^4, 8^3. were.

2^3. out there came the.

6^2. but new.

6^3. the _wanting_.

7^3. to your.

8^1. dressed wi.

9^1. did flee to.

10^1. While he.

10^3, 12^1. the _for_ her.

11^1. Cried _wanting_.

12^5. The keys were casten.

12^6. win away.

13^3. Then called.

15^4. may lay.

17^1. But _wanting_.

18^1. are southering.

19^2. Which are.

20^1. So _wanting_.

20^4. but _wanting_.

21^2. fair _for_ she.

21^3. Calling unto his.

22^4. lord burned.

23^2. come to.

23^4. would not: _no_ &c.

24^4. sit: _no_ &c.

25^2. O _wanting_.

25^4. I wat _wanting_.

26^1. _One_ alas _wanting._

26^2. heart’s easy wan.

26^4. And, well _wanting_.

_Some readings of #b# are preferable, as in 6^2, 18^1, 21^3, 22^4; others also, which may be editorial improvements._

#B.#

16. “This is another stanza which I afterwards received.”

#C.#

4^1. _A small stroke between_ out _and_ it.

* * * * *

APPENDIX

#A# 26 And aft she cried, ‘Ohon! alas! alas! A sair heart’s ill to win; I wan a sair heart when I married him, And the day it’s well returned again.’

My friend the late Mr Norval Clyne thought that this obscure stanza might perhaps be cleared up by the following verses, communicated to him in 1873 by the Rev. George Sutherland, Episcopal clergyman at Tillymorgan, Aberdeenshire.

YOUNG TOLQUHON

Word has come to Young Tolquhon, In his chamber where he lay, That Sophia Hay, his first fair love, Was wedded and away.

‘Sophia Hay, Sophia Hay, My love, Sophia Hay, I wish her anes as sair a heart As she’s gien me the day.

‘She thinks she has done me great wrang, But I don’t think it so; I hope to live in quietness When she shall live in woe.

‘She’ll live a discontented life Since she is gone from me; Ower seen, ower seen, a wood o green Will shortly cover me.

‘When I am dead and in my grave, Cause write upon me so: “Here lies a lad who died for love, And who can blame my woe.”’

Mr Sutherland wrote: This fragment I took down from the recitation of my mother, twenty or twenty-five years ago. She was born in 1790, and her great-grandmother was a servant of the last Forbes of Tolquhon. She had a tradition that Sophia Hay was one of the Errol family, and married Lord John Gordon, who was burned at Frendraught. Mr Clyne remarked: The Young Tolquhon at the time of this marriage, about 1628, was Alexander Forbes, eldest son of William Forbes of Tolquhon. Alexander is recorded to have died without issue, and the following additional particulars, singularly suggestive of a determination on the unfortunate lover’s part to renounce the world, have been communicated to me by Dr John Stuart. In 1631 William Forbes granted a charter of the lands of Tolquhon to his second son Walter and his heirs male, and in 1632 another deed of the same sort to Walter, with the express consent of Alexander, his elder brother. In 1641 Alexander is supposed to have been dead, as Walter is then styled “of Tolquhon.” The lady’s somewhat enigmatical exclamation,

‘I wan a sair heart when I married him, And the day it’s well returned again,’

may have its explanation in the words of Young Tolquhon,

‘I wish her anes as sair a heart As she’s gien me the day.’

Mr Clyne did not fail to observe that Father Blakhal has recorded of Lady Melgum that he had often heard her say that she had never loved anybody but her husband, and never would love another (Narration, p. 92). This testimony, if not decisive, may be considered not less cogent as to the matter of fact than anything in ‘Young Tolquhon’ to the contrary. But it may be that stanza 24 became attached to the Frendraught ballad in consequence of the coexistence of this or some similar ballad of Young Tolquhon.

197

JAMES GRANT

Motherwelll’s MS., p. 470, communicated apparently by Buchan; ‘The Gordons and the Grants,’ Buchan’s Ballads

of the North of Scotland, II, 220.

There was an implacable feud between the Grants of Ballindalloch and the Grants of Carron, “for divers ages,” Sir Robert Gordon says, certainly for ninety years after 1550. This fragment has to do with the later stage of their enmity. In 1628, John Grant of Ballindalloch killed John Grant of Carron. James Grant of Carron, uncle of the slain man, burnt all the corn, barns, and byres of Ballindalloch young and old, and took to the hills (1630). The Ballindallocbs complained to Murray, the lieutenant, and he, “to gar ane devil ding another,” set the Clanchattan upon James Grant. They laid siege to a house where he was with a party of his men; he made his way out, was pursued, and was taken after receiving eleven arrow-wounds. When he was well enough to travel, he was sent to Edinburgh, and, as everybody supposed, to his death; but after a confinement of more than a year he broke ward (October, 1632). Large sums were offered for him, alive or dead; but James Grant was hard to keep and hard to catch, and in November, 1633, he began to kythe again in the north. A gang of the forbidden name of McGregor, who had been brought into the country by Ballindalloch to act against James Grant, beset him in a small house in Carron where he was visiting his wife, having only his son and one other man with him; but he defended himself with the spirit of another Cloudesly, shot the captain, and got off to the bog with his men.[29]