The Witch’s Song

Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye; If ye will not go before, cummer, let me! The child fed on milk like a floweret on dew, In the dread hour of trial its purpose may rue; While through the red levin we wrestle the storm, And give the lost drave to the fish and the worm!

The tempest has thicken’d, since merrily we flew O’er the deep glens of Humbie, ere chanticleer crew. By the green skirts of Lammer we rallied our host, And dug the morass where the pedlar was lost: A charm we found hid, in the pit’s central cell, ’Twill conjure a legion of devils from hell!

Haste! haste! where yon skipper is lab’ring in vain, In his crazy old shallop the helm to regain, Take Rutterkin, mewing, and plunge her below, Where the mermaid is rinsing her visage of snow; Then a shout will be heard, rising slowly and loud, That will make the bones rattle that rot in the shroud.

There’s fire in his bosom that never will drown; For the baby is strangled that no one will own;— There’s cattle a-hungering though pasture be near;— There’s hypocrites praying in fervour and fear! Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye; If ye will not go before, cummer, let me!

Thus sung the Witch of Keith; anon she sat Revelling with Satan; and, with eldriche glee, Laugh’d loud to see the drowner’s agony! There shone the Sorcerer, Fein of potent power, (The key-keeper of the air’s artillery,) With the accursed crew, that ofttimes held Unhallow’d meetings in North Berwick’s fane, Plotting destruction ’gainst the royal James; Wretches that pilfer’d church-yards, and would cut The wedding-ring from off the putrid finger! O heavens! it was a soul-subduing sight, Where those of nearest kin were doom’d to perish! The father spurn’d the son—brother the brother— Each push’d the other down, as wild he strove To catch the floating wreck, while the stout youth Triumph’d above his old grey-headed sire! Amid these fearful scenes some seamen gain’d That ridge of rocks that stretch ’neath March’s Dyke— Short was their respite—headlong on the rocks The coming wave dash’d out their dizzy brains! While hollow groans came echoing to the shore. At these appalling sounds, the deer was roused In Broxmouth’s shades: thence, bounding up the hill, He dripping stood in Thurston’s lonely glen. Wo to the hapless beast; for from their lair He roused a gang of witches,—in revenge A fearless hag assumed the greyhound’s form, And chased the frighten’d stag o’er hill and glen, Till, ere he wist, in Bransley’s fatal moss He found a sepulchre, watery and deep! Returning thence, for safety, the elf took The colley’s shape; and singling from the herd, That clad the hills, the sleekest milk-white ox, Drove the astounded creature passive on To where the sisters held their rites profane. Muttering a spell, they took the lusty steer, And bound him limb to limb, and then baptised A brindled cat; which done, they buried both Deep in the earth alive: a sovereign charm ’Gainst rank disease:—then mincing signs they tore Three shrivell’d fragments from a dead man’s hand, And pounded them to powder!—precious stuff! To work the hest of Satan. Noxious clouds Rose from the cauldron as the faggots blazed, When gathering, round and round, “Aroynt!” they cried Sweeping the welkin with their winged brooms, Oceanward, bent on hell-imagined deeds. Amongst this train, there was a youthful quean, Comely, dark-featured, called Isobel Young, Who vow’d revenge on one, whose scandalous tongue Had done her injury, named “Crazy George!” Bell, lighting on his boat, grasp’d firm the helm, And dash’d him pellmell through the broken waves: Then, with a grin, she leer’d in George’s face, And mutter’d “Grist!”—next onward reckless steer’d Towards the shore, nor stopt, till, grazing, shook The little shallop on the rutted rocks; When, smarting, like a living thing it veer’d, And sought once more the bosom of the storm: But when the shatter’d mast fell overboard With its torn drapery, the poor man roar’d! Clasping the gunwale.—Bell, again, cried “Grist!” George gnash’d his teeth, and pray’d that Christ would save His soul from Satan!—sovereign talisman Was in these words; for ‘mediately the fiend Vanish’d in flame, still muttering, “Grist, grist, grist!” Now ’midst the dismal pauses of the storm The seaman’s wail was heard, echoing among The Castle’s caverns, (like the hopeless groan Of wretch in its lone dungeons,) as he call’d On God to bless his wife and helpless boys! But still these awful words rung in his ear, Darkening portending fate: “Ye would not come “When mercy waited on thee; now, when floods “Of mighty waters rush upon thy soul, “The Lord forsakes thee!”... The beacon blazes high on Trowness Point, Tinging the ruins of St Dennis’ church, That seem in flames, while gleaming wide and far, Like thickening stars upon the robe of night; The lights are gathering, and the sea-fowl’s scream, (Roused from her aerie nest on lone St Abbs,) With noisy flapping wings, and mazy flight, Deepens the mournful music of the storm! Matrons—and maids—and lovers—crowd the strand! And hands are wrung, and silken tresses tore;— And swollen hearts choke up the power of speech;— And children seek their fathers—who have none!— And wives their husbands—who are husbandless!— And sires their sons—who now must beg their bread!— And maids their lovers—wed away to death!— The Angel of Destruction stalks abroad,— And who can stay his arm, or bound his course? When morning shone upon the troubled sea, Like gleams of gladness on the face of horror, Unnumber’d images of death appear’d To catch the aching eye. A firm-built boat, That braved the stormy night, drew near the harbour, With two lorn men on board, (the rest had died Through dire fatigue, worn at the faithless oar;) But Hope, alas! smiled only to betray; For a voracious wave, with ruthless fury, Shiver’d their skiff on that lone rock, where now An Iron Pole the sailor’s beacon stands!— A vessel, laden, drifted to the shore, Below the Washing Rocks, and met the waves, As vaulting up, in clouds of foam, they lash’d The weeping heavens. O, it was pitiful To see the trembling Dutchmen how they raved In terror at the gale, and inly sigh’d For the cold breeze that fans the Zuyder Zee; As evermore the rock-chafed breakers fell With roaring deafening noise.—Forth on the deck A gallant youth appear’d, and wound a rope Around his manly waist, then fearless plunged Amidst the boiling surf, and sought the shore. Long, long, he buffeted the waves, and sunk; Till, like a sea-bird, rising from the depths Of ocean’s coral beds, again he held His fearless course, and near exhausted landed Amidst glad shouts, upon the pebbly strand; When, from his panting sides, a rope unwove, Was firmly braced upon the strand, and form’d A smooth-declining angle from the vessel, Whereon a cott was slung, which glided soft Piloted to the shore, and from its bosom Leap’d forth a lady, veil’d in silvery foam, Like Agenor’s royal daughter when she stood On the Dictean coast. None ever knew For what, or whence, these sea-beat wanderers came, (Perchance some Danish princess, tempest-tost!) The seamen answer’d all interrogatories Forbiddingly.—The strangers went away In mystery,—and their secret went with them! Pale Desolation sat upon the beach Weeping o’er human woe—a gloomy picture!— Like the grim after-scenery of a battle, (Where fiends joy o’er the havoc fools have made.) Boats lay keel up, beating among the rocks, And splinter’d spars lay thick as harvest stubble;— While ghastly corpses drifted to the shore, Clench’d in the sand, or ’tangled in the weeds;— And many push’d to gain the ocean’s edge, Gazing, knee-deep, in silent breathless horror, Trembling lest the next wave should waft a friend;— And wretched women, with their screaming babes, Delirious sought their husbands’ lifeless forms! There stood an old man by the sea and wept, And tore his hoary locks, and raved, and swore— His sole support, his only son was drown’d! And by yon Castle’s cliffs, a virgin bride Beheld her lover’s bloated carcass floating; She spoke not, but, wild gazing, madly sprung, And made her bridal-bed on the green billow! How various are the hues that tinge the mind, So nicely shaded, that philosophy Might spend eternities and never trace them, A novice in the school of vain conjecture! Cold, cold, and gentle was the icy grief That chill’d the bosom of forsaken Mary! Losing itself in settled melancholy. Long on that rock, where art, with curious skill, Has scoop’d a cave, and wells a crystal spring, She sat on that dread day in musing sorrow; And oft, in after times, she sought that spot, Where, robed in many colours, she would braid Her hair with sea-weed, and with varied shells Picture the perish’d drave—and sob—and sing. A buxom matron had six gallant sons In this sad enterprise. She slumbering lay In morning dreams, and saw them all return Laden with treasures from the gorgeous deep; Each held a foaming jar in his glad hand, Filling a silver cup with rosy wine, To pledge their mother’s health. With joyous face They bade her drink.—She raised herself in bed, Stretch’d forth her hand to grasp the proffer’d cup— It fell—she woke!—when, horrors! one by one Their death-cold forms were brought into her cottage: Henceforth her senses in wild mazes wander’d, And she was seen, a broken-hearted woman, Singing for evermore these plaintive rhymes.