Chapter 9

And underneath the middle Cross A grave yawned wide and vast, But the soul of Judas Iscariot Shivered and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto It was the Brig of Dread, And the great torrents rushing down Were deep and swift and red.

He dared not fling the body in For fear of faces dim, And arms were waved in the wild water To thrust it back to him.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Turned from the Brig of Dread, And the dreadful foam of the wild water Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on, Upon an open plain, And the days went by like blinding mist, And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on All through the Wood of Woe; And the nights went by like the moaning wind And the days like drifting snow.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Came with a weary face-- Alone, alone, and all alone, Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east and he wandered west, And heard no human sound; For months and years in grief and tears, He wandered round and round.

For months and years, in grief and tears, He walked the silent night, Then the soul of Judas Iscariot Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste, As dim as dim might be, That came and went like a lighthouse gleam, On a black night at sea.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, Crawled to the distant gleam, And the rain came down, and the rain was blown Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on, Pushed on by hands unseen, And the days went by like black, black rain, And the nights like rushing rain.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, Strange and sad and tall, Stood all alone at the dead of night, Before a lighted hall.

And all the wold was white with snow, And his foot-marks black and damp, And the ghost of the silver Moon arose, Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves, And the walls were deep with white, And the shadows of the guests within Passed on the window-light.

And the shadows of the wedding guests Did strangely come and go, And the body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow.

The body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow, 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Ran swiftly to and fro.

To and fro, and up and down, He ran so swiftly there, As round and round the frozen Pole Glideth the lean white bear.

'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head, And the lights burned bright and clear-- "Oh, who is there?" the Bridegroom said, "Whose weary feet I hear?"

'Twas one looked up from the lighted hall, And answered soft and low, "It is a wolf runs up and down, With a black track in the snow."

The Bridegroom in his robe of white, Sat at the table-head-- "Oh, who is that who moans without?" The blessed Bridegroom said.

'Twas one looked from the lighted hall, And answered fierce and low, "'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Gliding to and fro."

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Did hush itself and stand, And saw the Bridegroom at the door With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he was clad in white, And far within the Lord's Supper Was spread so long and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked And his face was bright to see-- "What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper With thy body's sins?" said he.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stood black, and sad, and bare-- "I have wandered many nights and days; There is no light elsewhere."

'Twas the wedding guests cried out within, And their eyes were fierce and bright-- "Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot Away into the night!"

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he waved hands still and slow, And the third time that he waved his hands The air was full of snow.

And of every flake of falling snow, Before it touched the ground, There came a dove, and a thousand doves Made sweet sound.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot Floated away full fleet, And the wings of the doves that bare it off Were like its winding sheet.

'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door, And beckoned, smiling sweet; 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stole in and fell at his feet.

"The Holy Supper is spread within, And the many candles shine, And I have waited long for thee Before I poured the wine!"

The supper wine is poured at last, And the lights burn bright and fair, Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet, And dries them with his hair.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN: WALTER SCOTT

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with the day, He spurr'd his courser on, Without stop or stay down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear; He went not 'gainst the English yew, To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore: At his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space, And his looks were sad and sour, And weary was his courser's pace, As he reach'd his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor Ran red with English blood; Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, His acton pierced and tore, His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,-- But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page; His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come hither to my knee; Though thou art young and tender of age, I think thou art true to me.

"Come tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true! Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, What did my ladye do?"--

"My lady each night, sought the lonely light, That burns on the wild Watchfold; For from height to height, the beacons bright Of the English foemen told.

"The bittern clamor'd from the moss, The wind blew loud and shrill; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross To the eiry Beacon Hill.

"I watch'd her steps, and silent came Where she sat her on a stone;-- No watchman stood by the dreary flame, It burned all alone.

"The second night I kept her in sight, Till to the fire she came, And, by Mary's might! an Arméd Knight Stood by the lonely flame.

"And many a word that warlike lord Did speak to my lady there; But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast, And I heard not what they were.

"The third night there, the night was fair, And the mountain-blast was still, As again I watch'd the secret pair, On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

"And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve; And say 'Come this night to thy lady's bower, Ask no bold Baron's leave.

"'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch; His lady is all alone; The door she'll undo, to her knight so true On the eve of the good St. John.'--

"'I cannot come, I must not come: I dare not come to thee; On the eve of St. John I must wander alone, In thy bower I may not be.'--

"'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! Thou shouldst not say me nay; For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, Is worth the whole summer's day.

"'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair: So by the black-rood stone, and by holy St. John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'

"'Though the blood-hound be mute and the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to the east, And my foot-step he would know.'--

"'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east, For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en, And there to say mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'

"He turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd; Then he laugh'd right scornfully-- 'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight, May as well say mass for me!

"'At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, In thy chamber will I be'-- With that he was gone and my lady left alone, And no more did I see."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow, From the dark to the blood-red high; "Now tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, For, by Mary, he shall die!"--

"His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light, His plume, it was scarlet and blue, On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, And his crest was a branch of the yew."

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, Loud dost thou lie to me! For that knight is cold and laid in the mould, All under the Eildon-tree."--

"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! For I heard her name his name; And that lady bright she called the knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow, From the high blood-red to pale-- "The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- So I may not trust thy tale.

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain. Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, That gay gallant was slain.

"The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the name; For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate, And he mounted the narrow stair, To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood; Look'd o'er hill and vale; Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood, And all down Teviotdale.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"-- "Now hail, thou Baron, true! What news, what news from Ancram fight? What news from the bold Buccleuch?"

"The Ancram moor is red with gore, For many a Southron fell; And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, To watch our beacons well."--

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said: Nor added the Baron a word, Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourn'd and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said:-- "The worms round him creep, and his bloody grave is deep. It cannot give up the dead!"

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well-nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St. John.

The lady look'd through the chamber fair, By the light of the dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there-- Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

"Alas! away! away!" she cried, "For the holy Virgin's sake!"-- "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side, But, lady, he will not wake.

"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain; The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, For a space is doom'd to dwell.

"At our trysting place, for a certain space, I must wander to and fro, But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Hadst thou not conjured me so."

Love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd; "How, Richard, hast thou sped? And art thou saved or art thou lost?"-- The vision shook his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; So bid thy lord believe: That lawless love is guilt above, This awful sign receive."

He laid his left hand on an oaken beam, His right upon her hand, The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorched like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four, Remains on that board impress'd, And forever more that lady wore A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, Ne'er looks upon the sun, There is a monk in Melrose tower, He speaketh word to none.

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, That monk that speaks to none,-- That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron.

FAIR MARGARET'S MISFORTUNES

"I am no love for you, Margaret, You are no love for me. Before to-morrow at eight of the clock, A rich wedding you shall see."

Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window Combing her yellow hair; There she espied sweet William and his bride, As they were a-riding near.

Down she laid her ivory comb, And up she bound her hair; She went away out of her bower, And never returnéd there.

When day was gone and night was come, And all men fast asleep, There came the spirit of fair Marg'ret, And stood at William's feet.

"Are you awake, sweet William?" she said, "Or, William, are you asleep? God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, And me of my winding sheet."

When day was come and night was gone, And all men waked in from sleep, Sweet William to his ladye said,-- "Alas I have cause to weep.

"I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye,-- Such dreams are never good,-- I dreamt my bower was full of red swine, And the walls ran down with blood."

He called up his merrymen all, By one, by two, and by three; Saying, "I'll away to fair Margaret's bower, By the leave of my ladye."

And when he came to fair Margaret's bower, He knocked at the ring; And who so ready as her seven brethren, To let sweet William in.

He turned down the covering-sheet, To see the face of the dead; "Methinks she looks all pale and wan; She hath lost her cherry red.

"I would do more for thee, Margaret, Than would any of thy kin. And I will kiss thy pale cold lips, Though a smile I cannot win."

With that bespake the seven brethren, Making most piteous moan, "You may go and kiss your jolly brown bride, And let our sister alone!"

"If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, By day, nor yet by night."

"Deal on, deal on, ye merrymen all, Deal on your cake and wine. Whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine!"

Fair Margaret died as it might be to-day, Sweet William he died the morrow, Fair Margaret died for pure true love, Sweet William he died for sorrow.

Margaret was buried in the lower chancel, And William in the higher; And out of her breast there sprang a rose tree, And out of his a brier.

They grew till they grew unto the church-top, And when they could grow no higher; And there they tied a true lover's knot, Which made all the people admire.

At last the clerk of the parish came, As the truth doth well appear, And by misfortune he cut them down, Or else they had now been here.

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

There came a ghost to Marjorie's door, Wi' many a grievous moan, And aye he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none.

"Oh, say, is that my father? Or is't my brother John? Or is it my true love Willy, From Scotland new come home?"

"'Tis not thy father, Marjorie, Nor not thy brother John; But 'tis thy true love Willy From Scotland new come home.

"Oh Marjorie sweet! oh Marjorie dear! For faith and charitie, Will ye gie me back my faith and troth That I gave once to thee?"

"Thy faith and troth thou gavest to me, And again thou'lt never win, Until thou come within my bower And kiss me cheek and chin."

"My lips they are sae bitter," he says, "My breath it is sae strang, If ye get ae kiss from me to-night, Your days will not be lang.

"The cocks are crawing, Marjorie,-- The cocks are crawing again: The dead wi' the quick they mustna stay, And I must needs be gone."

She followed him high, she followed him low, Till she came to yon church-yard green, And there the deep grave opened up, And young William he lay down.

"What three things are these, sweet William, That stand beside your head?" "O it's three maidens, Marjorie, That once I promised to wed."

"What three things are these, sweet William, That stand close at your side?" "O it's three babes," he says, "Marjorie, That these three maidens had."

"What three things are these, sweet William, That lie close at thy feet?" "O it's three hell-hounds, Marjorie, That's waiting my soul to keep."

And she took up her white, white hand, And struck him on the breast; Saying, "Have here again thy faith and troth, And I wish your soul good rest."

CLERK SAUNDERS

Clerk Saunders and may Margaret Walked ower yon garden green; And deep and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between.

"A bed, a bed," Clerk Saunders said, "A bed for you and me!" "Fye na, fye na," said may Margaret, "Till anes we married be!"

"Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard And slowly lift the pin; And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in.

"Take your napkin in your hand, Tie up your bonnie een, And you may swear and save your aith, Ye saw me na since yestreen."

It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red:

When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning bright: They said, "We hae but one sister, And behold her lying with a knight!"

Then out and spake the first o' them, "We will awa' and let them be." And out and spake the second o' them, "His father has nae mair but he."

And out and spake the third o' them, "I wot that they are lovers dear." And out and spake the fourth o' them, "They hae been in love this mony a year."

Then out and spake the fifth o' them, "It were great sin true love to twain," And out and spake the sixth o' them, "It were shame to slay a sleeping man."

Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.

Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned, Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleepit sound Until the day began to daw; And kindly she to him did say, "It is time, true love, you were awa'."

But he lay still and sleepit sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She looked between her and the wa', And dull and drowsie were his een.

Then in and came her father dear; Said, "Let a' your mourning be; I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, And I'll come back and comfort thee."

"Comfort weel your seven sons, For comforted I will never be: I trow 'twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi' me."

The clinking bell gaed through the town, And carried the dead corpse to the clay. Young Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day.

"Are ye sleeping, Margaret?" he says, "Or are you waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, True love, as I gied them to thee."

"Your faith and troth ye sall never get, Nor our true love sall never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheek and chin."

"My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, It has the smell now of the ground; And if I may kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days will soon be at an end.

"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day. Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way."

"Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, And our true love sall never twin, Until ye tell wha' comes o' women, Wot ye, who die in strong traivelling?"

"Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see.

"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be missed away."

Then she has taken a crissom wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

"I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret; Ever I thank ye heartilie; But gin I were living, as I am dead, I'd keep my faith and troth with thee."

It's hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climbed the wall, and followed him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o' him.

"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet? Is there ony room at your side, Saunders? Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?"

"There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, There's nae room at my feet; My bed it is fu' lowly now, Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

"Cauld mould is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet; The dew it fall nae sooner down Then my resting place is weet."

Then up and crew the red, red cock, Then up and crew the gray; "'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg'ret, That you were going away.

"And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, And Marg'ret, o' veritie, Gin e'er ye love another man, Ne'er love him as ye did me."

THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL

There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o'er the sea.

They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, When word cam' to the carline wife That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, When word cam' to the carline wife That her sons she'd never see.

"I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fish be in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood!"

It fell about the Martinmas, When nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons cam' hame, And their hats were o' the birk.

If neither grew in shye nor ditch Nor yet in any small shugh; But at the gates o' Paradise That birk grew fair eneugh.

"Blow up the fire, my maidens! Bring water from the well! For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well."

And she has made to them a bed, She's made it large and wide; And she's ta'en her mantle round about, Sat down at the bedside.

Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said, "'Tis time we were away.

"The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin' worm doth chide; Gin we be miss'd out o' our place, A sair pain we maun bide."

"Lie still, lie still but a little wee while, Lie still but if we may; Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, She'll go mad ere it be the day.

"Our mother has nae mair but us; See where she leans asleep; The mantle that was on herself, She has happ'd it round our feet."

O it's they have ta'en up their mother's mantle, And they've hung it on a pin; "O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle, Ere ye hap us again!

"Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother's fire!"

A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, --_Every nighte and alle,_ Fire and sleet and candle-lighte, _And Christe receive thy saule._

When thou from hence away art passed, --_Every nighte and alle,_ To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last; _And Christe receive thy saule._

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, --_Every nighte and alle,_ Sit thee down and put them on; _And Christe receive thy saule._

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane, --_Every nighte and alle,_ The whins sall prick thee to the bare bane; _And Christe receive thy saule._

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst pass, --_Every nighte and alle,_ To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last; _And Christe receive thy saule._

From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass, --_Every nighte and alle,_ To Purgatory Fire thou com'st at last; _And Christe receive thy saule._