Rob Roy's Grave
Composed between 1803 and 1805.—Published 1807
The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head
of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds,
of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in
the Highlands of Scotland. —W. W. 1807.
[I have since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of
Rob Roy. If so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good
authority, namely, that of a well educated Lady who lived at the head of
the Lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the
remains of One so famous in the neighbourhood.—I. F.]
In the copy of Rob Roy's Grave, transcribed in Dorothy Wordsworth's
'Recollections' of the Tour in Scotland of 1803, there are several
important variations of text, which occur in none of the printed
editions of the poem. These are indicated (to distinguish them from
other readings) by the initials D. W.—Ed.
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.
The Poem
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| A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy! And Scotland has a thief as good, An outlaw of as daring mood; She has her brave Rob Roy! Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, And let us chant a passing stave, In honour of that Hero brave! Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart And wondrous length and strength of arm: Nor craved he more to quell his foes, Or keep his friends from harm. Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; Forgive me if the phrase be strong;— A Poet worthy of Rob Roy Must scorn a timid song. Say, then, that he was wise as brave; As wise in thought as bold in deed: For in the principles of things He sought his moral creed. Said generous Rob, "What need of books? Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves. "We have a passion—make a law, Too false to guide us or control! And for the law itself we fight In bitterness of soul. "And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose Distinctions that are plain and few: These find I graven on my heart: That tells me what to do. "The creatures see of flood and field, And those that travel on the wind! With them no strife can last; they live In peace, and peace of mind. "For why?—because the good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep who can. "A lesson that is quickly learned, A signal this which all can see! Thus nothing here provokes the strong To wanton cruelty. "All freakishness of mind is checked; He tamed, who foolishly aspires; While to the measure of his might Each fashions his desires. "All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall By strength of prowess or of wit: 'Tis God's appointment who must sway, And who is to submit. "Since, then, the rule of right is plain, And longest life is but a day; To have my ends, maintain my rights, I'll take the shortest way." And thus among these rocks he lived, Through summer heat and winter snow: The Eagle, he was lord above, And Rob was lord below. So was it—would, at least, have been But through untowardness of fate; For Polity was then too strong— He came an age too late; Or shall we say an age too soon? For, were the bold Man living now, How might he flourish in his pride, With buds on every bough! Then rents and factors, rights of chase, Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, Would all have seemed but paltry things, Not worth a moment's pains. Rob Roy had never lingered here, To these few meagre Vales confined; But thought how wide the world, the times How fairly to his mind! And to his Sword he would have said, "Do Thou my sovereign will enact From land to land through half the earth! Judge thou of law and fact! "'Tis fit that we should do our part, Becoming, that mankind should learn That we are not to be surpassed In fatherly concern. "Of old things all are over old, Of good things none are good enough:— We'll show that we can help to frame A world of other stuff. "I, too, will have my kings that take From me the sign of life and death: Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, Obedient to my breath." And, if the word had been fulfilled, As might have been, then, thought of joy! France would have had her present Boast, And we our own Rob Roy! Oh! say not so; compare them not; I would not wrong thee, Champion brave! Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all Here standing by thy grave. For Thou, although with some wild thoughts Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan! Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love The liberty of man. And, had it been thy lot to live With us who now behold the light, Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself, And battled for the Right. For thou wert still the poor man's stay, The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand; And all the oppressed, who wanted strength, Had thine at their command. Bear witness many a pensive sigh Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays Alone upon Loch Veol's heights, And by Loch Lomond's braes! And, far and near, through vale and hill, Are faces that attest the same; The proud heart flashing through the eyes, At sound of Rob Roy's name. Note Contents 1803 Main Contents |
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Stanzas 3 and 4 are thus combined by D. W., and also in a printed (not
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The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order
to prove the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that "he
could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing upright."
According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman; after having
sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was never conquered but
once, and this not till he was an Old Man.—W. W. 1807.
Note:
In Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of the Scotch Tour the
following occurs:
"August 27, 1803.—We mentioned Rob Roy, and the eyes of all glistened; even the lady of the house, who was very diffident, and no great talker, exclaimed, 'He was a good man, Rob Roy! he had been dead only about eighty years, had lived in the next farm, which belonged to him, and there his bones were laid.' He was a famous swordsman. Having an arm much longer than other men, he had a greater command with his sword. As a proof of the length of his arm, they told us that he could garter his tartan stockings below the knee without stooping, and added a dozen different stories of single combats, which he had fought, all in perfect good humour, merely to prove his prowess. I daresay they had stories of this kind which would hardly have been exhausted in the long evenings of a whole December week, Rob Roy being as famous here as even Robin Hood was in the forest of Sherwood; he also robbed from the rich, giving to the poor, and defending them from oppression. They tell of his confining the factor of the Duke of Montrose in one of the islands of Loch Ketterine, after having taken his money from him—the Duke's rents—in open day, while they were sitting at table. He was a formidable enemy of the Duke, but being a small laird against a greater, was overcome at last, and forced to resign all his lands on the Braes of Loch Lomond, including the caves which we visited, on account of the money he had taken from the Duke and could not repay."
September 12:
"Descended into Glengyle, above Loch Ketterine, and passed through Mr. Macfarlane's grounds, that is, through the whole of the glen, where there was now no house left but his. We stopped at his door to inquire after the family, though with little hope of finding them at home, having seen a large company at work in a hay-field, whom we conjectured to be his whole household, as it proved, except a servant-maid who answered our enquiries. We had sent the ferryman forward from the head of the glen to bring the boat round from the place where he left it to the other side of the lake. Passed the same farm-house we had such good reason to remember, and went up to the burying-ground that stood so sweetly near the water-side. The ferryman had told us that Rob Roy's grave was there, so we could not pass on without going up to the spot. There were several tombstones, but the inscriptions were either worn-out or unintelligible to us, and the place choked up with nettles and brambles. You will remember the description I have given of the spot. I have nothing here to add, except the following poem which it suggested to William."
Rob Roy was buried at the Kirkton of Balquhidder, near the outlet of
Loch Voil in Perthshire. There are three sculptured stones in the rude
burial-place of the Macgregors, at the eastern end of the old church.
The one with the long claymore marks the resting-place of Rob Roy's
wife; the one opposite on the other side is the tomb of his eldest son;
and the central stone, more elaborately carved, marks the grave of the
hero himself.—Ed.
Sonnet composed at —— Castle
Composed September 18, 1803.—Published 1807
[The castle here mentioned was Nidpath near Peebles. The person alluded
to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told to me by Walter
Scott.—I. F.]
In 1815 and 1820 this was one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.
The Poem
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| Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord! Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, And love of havoc, (for with such disease Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word To level with the dust a noble horde, A brotherhood of venerable Trees, Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, Beggared and outraged!—Many hearts deplored The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, And the green silent pastures, yet remain. Note Contents 1803 Main Contents |
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Note:
"Sunday, September 18th.—After breakfast walked up the river to Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half from the town. The castle stands upon a green hill, over-looking the Tweed, a strong square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate, though not in ruin, the garden overgrown with grass, and the high walls that fenced it broken down. The Tweed winds between green steeps, upon which, and close to the river side, large flocks of sheep pasturing; higher still are the grey mountains; but I need not describe the scene, for William has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he wrote the same day; the five last lines, at least, of his poem will impart to you more of the feeling of the place than it would be possible for me to do."
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland.)
Writing to Sir Walter Scott (October 16, 1803), Wordsworth enclosed a
copy of this sonnet, with the variation of text which has been quoted.
Lockhart tells us
"in that original shape Scott always recited it, and few lines in the language were more frequently in his mouth."
Compare Burns' Verses on the destruction of the Woods near
Drumlanrig, which refer to the same subject.—Ed.
Yarrow Unvisited
Composed 1803.—Published 1807
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the
Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:
"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"
W. W. 1807.
One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820.—Ed.
The Poem
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| From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my "winsome Marrow," "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow." "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow. "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow? "What's Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." —Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; My True-love sighed for sorrow; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open Strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow. "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow. "If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,— Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow!" Note Contents 1803 Main Contents |
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