by the Ettrick Shepherd [James Hogg].
Originally published in Fraser's Magazine (James Fraser) vol.4 #22 (Nov 1831).
Is there ever a man on merry Tweed-side,
On Avondale, or the banks of Clyde,
Or maiden or matron dwelling thereon,
Who has not heard tell of Crawford John?
Not one—but ask at an Englishman
(And he knows more than most men can),
What he would suppose this John to be,
I'll tell you his answer certainly,—
"Whoy soome ould crabbed boomkin Scot,
Voolgar and saucy, and what not."
Wo wouth thy stretch, beef-witted lown!
For Crawford John's a parish and town;
But how they came that name to dree,
That is a task devolves on me.
Why does Lord Lindsey, of Crawford, ride
With fifty yeomen by his side,
All belted in armour, glittering sheen,
And clad in the hunter's lightsome green?
And why does Annandale keep the brae
With all his Johnstones in array?
There's Hamilton Hyndford and Lockhart of Lee,
Maxwell Kilpatrick and Queensberry,
All moving about, in manner so sly,
As if some mighty event were nigh.
Their motive cannot be well opin'd,
But something sure is in the wind;
For all the land, both rich and poor,
Are hasting on to Crawford Moor:
From east and west they meet together,
And stand and gaze at one another.
Among the rest there came a spark
To a small cot when it was dark,
A sort of humble snug abode,
Was occupied by one John Tod—
A fresh old carl of joke and jeer,
Who lov'd his comrade and his beer,
The keeper of the king's red deer.
"Can I have quarters here to-night?"
Inquir'd this stately stranger wight:
For I have search'd the country round,
And lodging is not to be found:
In board or bed I'll not be nice,
Nor loath to pay a handsome price."
"Why, troth," said John, "I think, my lad,
Our countrymen be all gone mad:
What seek you all within our bounds,
With hooded hawks and coupled hounds?
You'll leave us nought, as I forethink,
Of meat to eat or drink to drink.
We keep no hostel, take no pay,
And choose not to give aught away:
Gang on your gate—the times are hard,
And.we have neither bed nor board."
"Hout fie, goodman! but ye're no blate,
To turn a stranger out sae late!
And sic a stranger, you'll agree,
As in our cot we seldom see.
I'll spread green rushes on the floor,
And make a bed behind the door."
In stepp'd the youth full sprightfully—
No bashful dumpish wight was he;
For at the first he did not miss
To give the wife a ranting kiss.
Then there was one spun in the nook,
At whom he cast a wistful look—
As well he might, for fairer flower
Ne'er bloom'd in cot or woodland bower;
She was the pink of mountain-maids,
The pearl of all those wildwood shades;
And every knight in Scotland broad
Had heard the name of Appin Tod.
But she was shy as roe in glen,
And joy'd in frolic more than men.
The younker saw at once that he
Had landed where he wish'd to be,
And straight contriv'd, with tale and toast,
To gain some credit with his host;
And, sooth, he manag'd things so meetly,
He captivated John completely.
He told of forays and of fights,
Of nobles and of belted knights—
Of tinkells at the break of morn,
And huntings with the hound and horn—
Of courtly dames within his ken,
And all their pranks with sinful men—
Till every tale grew, fast and fast,
More interesting than the last:
John never tried his joy to smother,
He laid one knee out o'er the other,
Lauded his guest in ardent strain,
And scratch'd his poll and laugh'd amain,
And said such stories, were he sworn,
He never had heard since he was born!
John had a fault, as most have had one—
His wife avouch'd it was a bad one—
In pushing fast the ale about,
He had a knack of drinking out,
Which caus'd him rise a thought sublime
And garrulous before the time—
I mean the time when old and young
Forget the way to hold their tongue.
For my part, 1 ween, after all,
That this was no great fault at all;
But every joy that men delight in
Is sure to set the wives a flyting.
They plied the bicker till John Tod
At times began to wink and nod,
And our goodwife oft to express
Some fidgeting and restlessness;
For she perceiv'd, at every drink,
The stranger tip the maid a wink—
Who seem'd to understand its meaning,
And smirk'd and birled at the spinning;
And as the lengthen'd thread she twin'd,
She flung her downy locks behind,
Which stream'd as lovely and as bright
As moonbeams through a cloud of light;
And as her ringlets wav'd and flew,
The stranger's bosom heav'd anew.
It was full time, her dam was thinking,
To stop the ogling and the drinking.
That stranger's heart was made of tinder—
He felt it burning to a cinder;
His very soul was in his eye,
And fix'd on Appin constantly—
While John sat drowsy, and scarce able
To see his guest across the table:
Save the young wag fear'd that the fun
Would stop ere it was well begun.
"Sit up, goodman," quoth he, "and list—
I like you so, I can't resist
Telling you that which, if it fortunes,
May be to you of great importance;
It is a secret,and a deep one,
But I think you a man can keep one."
O for our David's pencil fam'd,
There when the secret first was nam'd!
For such a cottage-group of three
In forty years he'll hardly see.
It came on John ere e'er he wist,
He started and cried, "Eh! what is 't?"
The goodwife hasted from the pantry,
And stood agape within the entry;
While Appin stopp'd her wheel at once,
And stood with visage half askaunce—
With half a thread unwinded on,
With one hand up and one hand down;
Such lovely picture of attention
'Tis hardly safe ev'n yet to mention.
"Goodman, you wonder, as you may,
What brings the people all this way;
But I can add, to your surprise,
The king's among you in disguise—
The nobles know of it in part,
And all are up and on the alert,
Ranging about with eager eyes,
Who first his Grace to recognise.
"They will not find him, I can guess,
With all their cunning and address;
But I have hopes his haunt to trace,
With help of you that know the place.
The king had told a maiden trim,
Expecting she would follow him;
But the young witch mischievously
Came straight and told the whole to me;
And I have flown on ardour's wing,
To be the first to find my king.
Now can you guess, sir, of his route?"
"Lord kens," quo John; "haste, man, speak out!
For I am out of breath already,
And with impatience glaz'd and giddy."
"Why, then, strange as it may appear,
As sure as you and I sit here,
He's gone disguis'd, and all alone,
To see a carl call'd Crawford John—
A stanch old hero, shrewd and queer,
The keeper of his forest deer."
Says John, "Friend, that we'll say nae mair of,
'Tis queerer news than you're aware of;
There's but ae feature that's uncouth in't,
There's no ae single word o' truth in't;
But that's neither your fault nor mine,
For fair and frank was your design:
The joke as truth you have regardit,
Then say the tale out as you heard it;
I wish, for the old ranger's cheer,
The tale were true as it is queer."
"Why, sir, if I the truth durst tell,
I know his errand there full well:
That keeper has one only child,
The flower of all that forest wild,
Whose beauty, form, and manners bland,
Have wrought deray through all the land—
So much, that late her fame hath flown
To Scotland's court and Scotland's throne;
And now King James, with purpose black,
Would give the sark from off his back,
To win that sweet and rosy elf
To be a mistress to himself."
"I'll see him d—d first!" John replied,
And slapp'd a hand on either side.
Up sprang the wight on lightsome limb,
And stared at John, and John at him.
"Is it possible that I look on
This very far-fam'd Crawford John?"
John Tod then prane'd across the floor,
And sharp'd his knife, and curs'd and swore;
Young Appin smirk'd and giggled finely,
And linked out a thread divinely.
The goodwife strenuously began
To soothe her surly, gruff goodman:
"His queen is dead, and I foresee
High honours waiting you and me;
And, harkye, John, as fact as death—
In all my dreams you hae some faith—
And I dream'd, only three nights hence,
That I was grandmother to a prince!"
"Ye daft auld roudess! Hear ye, Appin?
Faith, that's what's like enough to happen!
But, wife, your dream, to be a right ane,
las ae shortcoming, not a slight ane;
For first and foremost should have been
That you were mother to a queen."
"Come, Appin, let us leave the men,
And clean the house, baith but and ben:
The younker, though, may be but joking,
And that wad be a wee provoking."
"No, on my word, dame, 'tis no fun,
Sure as my name's James Jamieson:
I say the king his word has plight
Here in this cot to be to-night;
And to his word he's true and steady,
If the sly rogue's not here already.
Go search the barn, go search the bire,
The very nook beyond the fire;
Go, from the maiden's bed withdraw
The coverlet, the clothes, the straw;
For if report of him say true,
This night his presence you may rue.
I would not that this lovely maid
Were into folly's path betray'd;
No, not for all the stags that bell
From Tintock top to Coulter Fell."
With that the wight a search began—
He snatch'd a light and off he ran;
While Appin followed, laughing keenly,
Though of the joke she thought but meanly.
He search'd the barn, he search'd the bire,
The very nook beyond the fire;
He search'd as for a lurking thief,
E'en to the stand that held the beef:
But though to doubts he still inclined,
Nought of the monarch could they find.
From that short moment Appin's eye
Lost all its lightsome gaiety;
From that short moment Appin's face
Exchanged its wild and sprightly grace
For one that bard can ill express—
A breathless, blushing bashfulness—
A mellow tinge of ripening flower—
A flush before the noonday shower;
A wink or motion had begun it—
One whisper in her ear had done it.
What that impressive word could be
You'll guess, ere long, as well as me.
One other well-replenished bicker,
A lordly cag of reaming liquor,
Made John's brown cheeks as red as crimson,
And 'greed him with the king and Jamieson.
He toasted both, disclaimed all anger,
And drank till he could sit nae langer.
Then Jamieson express'd some wishes
To see his bed of sweet green rushes.
But, aha! the goodwife began
To see his drift, and mar his plan;
She was resolved to keep her Appin
Pure as the snow, whate'er might happen.
Resource was none—the hapless wight
Was forced to sleep with John all night;
While the goodwife, more to provoke,
With Appin slept, and next the stock!
Next morning, by the break of day,
The group were all in trim array;
And many a race was but and ben,
To see the king come up the glen.
John and his spouse paced on for ever,
The stranger and the maid went never;
They had far other things to mind—
Exchanging looks and whispers kind.
Reader, I have now in my view
A portrait, and must question you.
What was the loveliest sight at morn
You e'er beheld, since you were born?
You've seen the tint of golden broom—
The dew-drop in the heather bloom—
The harebell ope her virgin breast
Enamell'd to the glowing east?
Yes; these are sweet as sweet may be,
And these you've seen, and loved to see;
But you ne'er saw the lucid ray
From, Appin's eye that lovely day.
You've seen the cherry on the wall,
Bright, ripe, and just about to fall?
This you have seen, and long'd to sip,—
But not the gloss of Appin's lip!
And you have seen the wild swan's breast
Upon the silver waters rest;
The downy curve of snowy hue
On bosom of the mild sea-mew?
But there was one far lovelier still,
Which you ne'er saw, nor ever will.
No farther dare I think or write;
But take a minstrel's word in plight,
That never mould so meet, so fair,
E'er breathed the balmy mountain air.
Alas! what were the morning's dyes,
The glories of the earth and skies,
The beauties of the night or day,
If virgin beauty were away?
At length, when three days were o'erpast,
And lingering hope given up at last,
Both of the king, and (what was worse)
Of the grand hunt at Keppel-corse,
It happen'd so one morn, that John,
For some misdeed, to me unknown,
Had by the collar seized his guest,
And held him grimly—scarce in jest,
When round the cot came, like two arrows,
Lord Annandale and Bill of Tarras.
"Treason!" they cried, in furious tone,
And heaved their swords on Crawford John.
One wink from Jamieson's grey eye,
Brought both the heroes instantly
Down on their knees; their train came round,
And kneeling bow'd them to the ground.
John Tod stood like a statue grim;
He first ween'd that they kneel'd to him;
Then gazed about in wild affright,
And thought the folk gone mad outright.
But when he heard these accents hung
On every bland and humble tongue,
"God bless your gracious majesty!"
"O ho!" cried John, "'tis o'er with me!"
"Cheer up, good man!" cried good King James;
"Why should such difference be in names?
Yet mine's not feigned—it is well known,
James was my father, I his son.
Farewell, my sweetest earthly flower—
One modest kiss, I ask no more;
And thou shalt have, when thou'rt a bride,
The fairest dower e'er given on Clyde.
And now, goodwife, as we began
So will we end; you gave me one;
But now, as hostess, liege, and cousin,
I claim the ranting round half-dozen."
"Thanks, royal sir. When you come back
Your bed shall be at the door-back;
And without hire, or hope of pelf,
I'll sleep with Crawford John myself."
The hunt went on with hound and horn,
O'er all the moor the sounds were borne;
From every cliff loud echoes spoke,
The greenwood answered to the rock,
Till far abroad, at morn and even,
They quaver'd on the breeze of heaven;
On its thin billows heaving, rolling,
Like distant bell now done with tolling.
The king went home, and unconceal'd
Sent forth a charter, signed and seal'd.
Of terms my memory only one has—
Appinis Crawfordis Joannis.
In short, it bears, that all the lands
Held of the king by various hands,
Are now THE LANDS OF CRAWFORD JOHN,
To be possess'd, free and alone,
By him and Appin's heirs for ever,
For one night's lodging to the giver,
Whene'er he went with horn and hounds
To hunt the deer in Crawford bounds.
Thus was it named by royal donor,
And still retains the name of honour;
And Appin's race, the lieges say,
Possess the bounds unto this day.