Highland Legends. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder
Grant.—Nay, it is hardly fair to refer him to me; for although I have a full impression of its grandeur upon my mind which will not easily be effaced, I can give him no very accurate account of its pools or its streams, as regards their excellence for salmon angling.
Clifford.—Pho! none of your jokes, Mr. Grant. Although I like fishing and shooting, you know very well that I enjoy wild nature as much as either of you.
Grant.—Ha! ha! ha! I know you do, my dear fellow.
Clifford.—And, moreover, I have so much admired the scenery, as well as the fishing-pools of the river lower down, that if what you now speak of equals that with which I am already so familiar, it must be magnificent indeed.
Author.—I think that it in many respects surpasses all that you have hitherto seen. In truth, I know no river scenery in Great Britain at all to be compared in sublimity to that of the Findhorn about Ferness. Indeed, it rises more into that great scale of grandeur exhibited by some of the Swiss gorges than anything I have ever met with at home. But you must take the first opportunity of visiting it, Clifford. And then, in addition to the treat that nature will yield you during your ramble, and the good fishing which you will certainly have, I think you will be much gratified by the inspection of that interesting relic of antiquity, The Cairn and Pillar of the Lovers, which you will find there.
Clifford.—What! ha! ha! ha! some Pyramus and Thisbe—some Petrarch and Laura—among your heroes and heroines of the pemmican, I suppose!
Author.—No, no. The lonely obelisk, and the cairn from which it rises, may indeed have stood on the green holm of Ferness, with the rapid Findhorn sweeping around them, for ages. They may have been there whilst the great forests still spread themselves thickly over the country, but you would judge wrong if you supposed them to have co-existed with my savages of the pemmican; for there must have been some considerable approach to civilisation amongst a people who could have cut and transported that great mass of rough-grained sandstone, of which the obelisk is formed, from the nearest quarries of the same rock, some fifteen or twenty miles off, to the spot where it has ever since stood, not to mention the beautiful hieroglyphical carvings with which it has been ornamented.
Clifford.—Is there no legend attached to the monument?
Grant.—There is; and our friend has woven it into a little poem, which he once repeated to me.
Clifford.—Poem! come, let’s have it! You need not fear to give it to me now, you know; for there is no birch at hand to punish you for your false quantities.
Author.—To tell you the truth, I am quite tired of repeating the story in prose; so, lame though my stanzas may be, I shall prefer risking your criticism. But you must remember, that it is one thing to climb a rugged heathery hill like this, and another thing to mount Parnassus.
THE CAIRN OF THE LOVERS.
The raven of Denmark stretched his broad wing,
And shot his dark flight o’er Moray’s fair fields;
And Findhorn’s wild echoes were heard to ring
With ill-omened croak, and the clash of shields.
And the yelling shouts of the conflict broil,
As Dane and Scot met in mortal toil—
And cruel and fierce was the battle tide
That raged on rocky Findhorn’s side;
And red was his wave, as it wailed away,
By that plain where his slaughtered warriors lay.
Yet stark stern in death was each hero’s frown!
Each fell not till crushed by an hundred foes!
But, though hordes of Norsemen had borne them down,
Dire vengeance had soothed their dying throes.
For the bloody fight had not been won
Till drooped to the west the slanting sun,
And his golden beams a bright glory shed
Around each dying hero’s head,
And lighted his soul with a cheering ray,
E’er his dim eye closed on the parting day.
But Findhorn’s dark heights, and his wizzard wave,
Were lighted anon by far fiercer rays,
Calling bosoms abroad, that beat warm and brave,
To muster around the tall beacon’s blaze.
And now, as afar o’er the plains they look,
Where glistens with flame each winding brook,
Red ruin enwraps both tower and town,
And wild Norsemen’s shouts reach the beacon Doun;
And by shrieks of woe their hearts are wrung,
Till each Scottish breast to revenge is strung.
Whose steed-tramp resounds down the woody glen?
Who bears, as he rides, his proud crest so high,
His brow circled with gems, as chief of men,
And gold shining bright on his panoply?
’Tis Fergus the King! The broad signal fire,
And the Norsemen’s ravage, have roused his ire;
And, see how his clustering horsemen sweep
From the forest dark and the dingle deep!
And, hark to the tread of the many feet
That crowd to those heights where the waters meet!
Full little does Sewyn, the Norse King, know,
As his ruthless Danes rifle the peaceful plain,
That the Pass of the Dhuie conceals a foe
Of far other mould than the shepherd swain.
And far other herds, and far other flocks
Than shepherds may feed, lie hid by these rocks.
He doubts not but all who a spear could wield
Have fall’n in the strife of one bloody field.
Onward he presses, and, blindly led,
Go his Norsemen, with hopes of plunder fed.
The current was rapid, the stream was deep,
And the cumbered waters foamed high and flashed,
As horsemen and foot, from the shore so steep,
Through the Dhuie in thick confusion dashed.
But scarce were they rid of the rushing tide,
Nor yet had they formed on the meadow’s side,
When by bursting yells the skies were rent,
With the gleam of arms glowed the firmament,
And down, like the lightning’s fiery shower,
Came King Fergus’ force on King Sewyn’s power.
And quailed the black raven of Denmark then,
And he cowered his wing, and he croaked his fear;
And wide with the eagle’s scream rang the glen,
As eager she snuffed up her feast so near;
And each Norseman’s heart, though ne’er so bold,
With