THE GOBLIN GROOM;
A Tale
OF DUNSE.
BY
R. O. FENWICK, Esq.
Thus, while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charmed me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time.—Scott.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY ALEX. LAWRIE & CO.
FOR ALEX. LAWRIE, EDINBURGH;
AND
J. RIDGWAY, LONDON.
——
1809.
TO THOSE ADMIRERS
OF ENGLISH POETRY
WHO WISH TO SEE IT RESTORED TO ITS
“OLD STYLE OF PATHOS,”
THE FOLLOWING POEM
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED
BY
THE AUTHOR.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Author of the Goblin Groom can, on no consideration, be induced to
follow the example of the amiable and justly celebrated Madame de
Genlis, who, in her Historical Romance of the Chevaliers du Cygne,
observes,—“Enfin l’ideè de faire mourir l’heroine de l’histoire des les
premieres pages, et cependant de s’occuper d’elle jusqu’ a la fin, est
peutetre assez neuve pour meriter quelqu’ indulgence.” Could he, on the
contrary, prolong the precious life of his exalted hero, but for a
single day, he should feel more real delight, than the indulgence due to
the most afflicting novelty can possibly confer. But though unable to
guard him from the blow, which the unrelenting hand of time must one day
inflict, the author can at least promise, if he shall himself survive
the catastrophe, to restore him to the respectful consideration of his
readers, in a form at once congenial to the spirit of poetry, and
suitable to the taste and temper of the times. To some of his readers,
it may be necessary to remark, which must readily occur to the attention
of the critic, that his true hero is only to be discovered, by the
frequent allusions to his high rank and acknowledged virtues; and having
thus divested the Goblin of the precedency, which he might otherwise
appear to have usurped, it now only remains to give his readers a
general idea of the story. It turns on the several incidents of a
fox-chace, but is called a Tale of Dunse, because in that favourite
RENDEZVOUS of the lovers of the chace, the Goblin first made his
appearance. That the minds of his readers may be as perfectly prepared,
as he could wish, for the manners of the age in which it is laid, he
apprizes them, that the poem opens on the last day of April 1806, and
concludes with the death of a fox on Flodden Field twenty-four hours
thereafter. The country over which he has accompanied his elfin fay and
merry pack, he has viewed with the rapid glance of a sportsman, and
therefore trusts, that his hasty and imperfect sketch will not be
regarded with the too scrupulous eye of rigid criticism. With all its
faults, but without further apology, he commits it to its fate, and,
notwithstanding the protecting influence of wire-wove,—broad
margin,—high price,—and hot-press, he is not without feeling some
apprehensions concerning its success.
CONTENTS.
| | PAGE |
| | Introduction to Canto First—To Walter Marrowfat, Gardener to his Grace the Duke of B— —h | 1 |
| CANTO | I. | The Hostel, or Inn, | 13 |
| | Introduction to Canto Second—To Benjamin Buffet, Butler to his Grace the Duke of B— —h | 37 |
| II. | The Fox Chace, | 47 |
| | Notes to Canto First | 81 |
| | Notes to Canto Second | 103 |
ERRATA.
| Page 40, line 1, for mintrel’s read minstrel’s. |
| Pages 53 and 57, head line, for FOX-CHASE read FOX-CHACE. |
| Page 72, line 5, note, for son read sont. |
| 83, line 9, for Anceps read Auceps. |
THE GOBLIN GROOM.
Introduction to Canto First.
TO WALTER MARROWFAT,
GARDENER TO HIS GRACE THE D— OF B— —H.
Edinburgh.
Walter, at last, in order due,
The minstrel tunes his harp to you;
The very notes of friendship dear,
Are cordial to a poet’s ear:
Then why, my Walter, should I care
From whence you come, or who you are.
What! tho’ no royal blood should flow
Thro’ veins of blue and breast of snow:
Tho’ lowest of the low you be,
Still you shall hear my minstrelsy:
Enough to me it is that you
Are vassal to the bold B— —h;
For to my heart they still are dear,
Who serve that stout, that valiant peer.
But now, my friend, ’tis right to ask,
How thrives your culinary task?
Seems it to me the cultured soil,
Should glow beneath your sun-burnt toil.
I see thy face with ruddy glow
Smile on the rising cabbage row;
And now, methinks, I feel thy glee,
For I, my friend, can feel like thee,
E’en at the peeping of a pea;
Just when the germ has broke the soil,
The very sight repays thy toil.
O, Cultivation! Ceres’ child,
Foe to the hill and desert wild!
Foe to the mountain and the moor,
Friend to the hungry and the poor!
But let me not, with thoughts elate,
Forget my Walter’s garden gate:
Of all the gates so wonderous fair
Here round the princely dwelling,
My Watty’s gate, beyond compare,
All these is far excelling![1]
But I forgot the garden fair,
And sought the barren mountain bare.
O’er Tiviot’s hills, I bent my way,
Forgetful of my minstrel lay;
Nor thought I much of this or that,
Till fancy painted Marrowfat.
She painted Walter as I’ve seen,
When weeding D— —h’s walks so green;
To noble dames, just bent to bow;
Dejected head, erected hoe,
Proclaimed respect to ladye fair,
And shewed her that defence was there.
’Twas diffidence and manly pride,
That bows, yet shews the power to chide.
Above the common height of man,
My Walter stands at least a span:
A brow of jet, a fiery eye,
Like planet in a sable sky,
Shone from my fancy’s painted chief;
And then, to give the scene relief,
A nose projecting curvedly;
The nose befitting well the eye.
Vails it not me, alas! to speak
Of bushy lip, or cherry cheek;
To say I saw my Walter smile,
I’d rather pause a little while:
For bootless is the task to paint,
When fancy’s self is far too faint,
To shew the gardener of B— —h,
In form exact, and colours true.
How happy passed my early days,
With thee in D— —h’s groves of bays;
When slinking sly, from bush to bush,
We sought to catch the nestling thrush;
Or when supported, friend, by thee,
I climbed the giant cherry-tree;
Or ran a race, dear Wat, with you,
To please the gallant young B— —h.
The bower was still, and all was hushed,
’Twas eve, and modest nature blushed;
The crimson setting of the sun,
Waved o’er the night-cloud’s visage dun,
And all creation, so serene,
Enjoyed the still, the lovely scene.
The thrush, upon the hazel bough,
Pour’d calmly forth her evening vow,
And every bird, from tree to tree,
Joined in the heavenly melody;
What heart so fraught with woe or care,
But might have tasted pleasure there.
Such, Watty, was the night when we
Pursued the humming bumble bee;[2]
When you averred the beast[3] could sting,
And I responded, no such thing!
“The question fierce, the stern reply,”
Was heard to sound ’twixt U and I.[4]
Anon: my Watty dared to fight
The fancied foeman Wallace wight;
And I, if pleasing mem’ry hold.
Dared to the combat, Bruce the bold.
Perhaps, my friend, you’ll wish to know
Th’ event of each successive blow;
How Bruce, transported, swore he’d die,
But never, never yield or fly;
How Wallace to the combat flew,
With fancied pride, but courage true.
Alas! my friend, your hopes are vain,
For friendship still forbids the strain:
The tale, alas! would only tend
To make a foeman of a friend.
And whilst I live, and whilst I breathe,
I swear it is so much beneath
The soul of man, to harbour hate
Against the good, against the great,
That I will ne’er to man disclose
The purport of these bloody blows.
Enough! enough! it is to me
To hate the name of bumble bee.
THE GOBLIN GROOM.
CANTO FIRST.
The Hostel, or Inn.
I.
Joy reign’d in Dunse’s[5] distant seat,
Thro’ tavern, market place, and street,
The scene of many a valiant feat
In days of distant yore.
But now those distant days are fled,
Peace rears again her placid head,
And gory feud I hope is staid
To plague the land no more.
Where garden is, was place of tilt
Or tournament, where blood was spilt;
Where stain’d was many a foeman’s hilt
With blood of knight laid low;
Now peeps the pea, from glowing bed,
Forgetful of December dread;
The broader bean, her leaf has spread
Th’ unhallow’d spot to show.
II.
Now why are Dunse’s people glad,
Who once were wont to be so sad;
How was the feudal hatred staid
That waste their lovely fields had laid;
Why rolls the Whittadder[6] so white,
The scene of many a bloody fight;
And how has peace reception found
On such unhallowed bloody ground?
I may not tell the change of time;
It ill becomes my minstrel rhyme:
’Twere impious surely to relate
The fancied works of fancied fate.
Enough, the bloody feud is staid;
Enough, the sword aside is laid;
And Whittadder long may’st thou flow
With spotless wave and crystal tide;
And may’st thou never, never know,
Again the strife of border side.
III.
The sun o’er Dunse’s hills of grey,
Had nearly shed his parting light,
Save to the west, one lingering ray,
Seemed to forbid th’ approach of night;
And Lammermoor, with transient smile,
Now lighted up her visage bleak,
And every distant hill, the while,
Shone with a vivid, passing streak;
And Tweed’s broad river, from afar,
Blazed like a beacon flame of war:
Sure ’twould have pleased your heart to see
So much of grandeur, so much glee.
’Twas so to Dunse, when keen of sport
The Lothian sportsmen bent their way;
Her hostel then became a court;
If courts are jovial, courts are gay.
But why need I pretend to tell,
What to each chief or squire befel
In journeying that way.
IV.
Thronged was the hostel’s chambered space,
With peer, with baron, knight, and squire,
And many a waiting man in lace
Stood ready round the kitchen fire,
Attentive to the jirking wire;
For each attendant knew full well
The jirking of his master’s bell.
I’ll say the sportsmen all are dressed,
Have doffed their morning’s spattered vest,
And after salutation meet,
And question after lady fair,
Each at the board has ta’en his seat;
For ev’ry sportsman had his chair.
V.
Perchance, my friend, you’d have me name
Each, after each, in his degree;
Or even say from whence they came;
Alas! that must not, may not be.
In truth, I only know a few
Of all the gallant, noble crew:
But he, the chieftain of them all,
Is absent from the festival,
The heir of bold B— —h.
VI.
Why stands that chair
So empty there,
Whilst anxious eyes are cast around;
And looks that show
They do not know
Where one so worthy may be found?
The chair, they vow, shall empty stand,
To shew their loyalty and truth;
For each and all, this huntsman-band,
Admired and loved the gallant youth;
And said they, with a passing tear,
“How much we miss his presence here.”
VII.
Four-and-twenty huntsmen keen
Round the table sat, I ween;
Four-and-twenty footmen neat,
Plied the beer, and served the meat:
Landlady, and daughter fair
Paid their due obedience there.
Well I ween, each gallant youth,
Cast an eye upon the maid;
Each thought his look, in real truth,
By the maiden’s well repaid:
One alone, of all the crew,
More than all the others knew;
What he knew, I may not tell,
But the maiden knew full well.
VIII.
Fish, from Dunbar’s rocky shore,
Stood the president before,
If my mem’ry do not fail,
Sent by noble L— —le.
In the centre, soup was seen
Smoking, from a vase of snow.
Beef, at bottom, fat and lean,—
Beef of Indian Buffalo.
This was sent by T— —le’s peer
To augment the sportsman’s cheer;
T— —le, sprung from mighty H—y,
Foremost in the border day.
Tarts and pastry sent, I ween,
By the lady De G— —ne.
IX.
’Tis not for me to say what more
The hostess’ care supplied;
But welcome free, and open door,
And pease, from D— —h’s garden store,
Were seen on every side:
So one and all, at once agreed,
That bold B— —h had earlier seed
Than any northward of the Tweed.
X.
The dinner’s o’er, the circling glass
Now full, now emptier, passes round,
As strikes the ear, the pleasing sound
Of jovial song, or toasted lass:
But short, alas! this tabled glee;
For who the coming woe might see!
————
—Said I, D— —h’s much honoured chair
Might not be filled by any there;
And, said I, it was right that he,
Though absent from the company,
With honour due should treated be;
D— —h, so honoured for his worth,
For rank, for titles, and for birth,
Had not an equal here on earth,
To fill his vacant chair:
So one and all, with one consent,
Their voice have given, and vote have lent,
To let the seat be bare:
(Friend Walter, I am certain quite,
You’ll say both voice and vote went right).
XI.
But why that hollow note of woe,
That stops of wine the genial flow;
Why shrinks the late convivial throng,
And why has silence banished song;
And why is horror’s aching stare
Sent wildly to the empty chair:
Oh! why is every eyebrow knit,
When turned to where D— —h should sit.—
————
The chair is filled! a stranger sat
Upon the honoured seat;
Nor deigned he to doff his hat,
Though more than one had hinted that
Respect was always meet.
But he was heedless of them all,
And thrice he gazed round the hall,
But ne’er a word did he let fall:
Whilst thus he sat, whilst thus he gazed,
The goodly throng were all amazed;—
XII.
And marvelled they, how this could be,
And how he entered none might say;
And some averred a sprite was he,
And others swore he was a fay:
And all agreed ’twas passing strange,
And marvellous withall,
That either sprite or fay should range
Into a festal hall:
Nor could the wisest present name
From whence he sprung, or how he came.
XIII.
He was of little form, and tight;
His weight, if man, had been full light:
In short, he was a sportsman-sprite.
A pea-green jerkin on his back
All dabbled by a splashing hack;
His dirty boots, his leathers long
With crimson whip-cord tied;
His straight necked spurs, and heavy thong,
Proclaimed him formed to ride:
And he had ridden far that day,
For he was daubed, and splashed with clay.
XIV.
The circling glass again goes round,
As fear in wine and use is drowned:
The goblin sprite enjoys each joke,
Though never once the while he spoke,
But lent a civil listening ear,
Resolved minutely all to hear;
And every toast with ready will
His elfin hand consents to fill.
Heavens! what a wondrous draught he drew
When e’er they toasted bold B— —h.
XV.
Oh! ’twould have done you good to see
How keen, how long, how heartily
He pushed the liquor round:
He never left or spilt a drop;
He never let the bottle stop,
Nor uttered a sound.
And, strange to tell, the jovial fay,
Though fond of wine, had nought to say.
A man of words might never learn
To be so wondrous taciturn.
And now the song, with jovial strain,
Awakened midnight’s dull repose;
Though many pleaded colds in vain,
Ayes had the ’vantage still of noes:
And thus may rulers ever be
Supported by majority.[7]
XVI.
Dear unto me, my native land,
Is every field of thy wide realm;
And dearer still the guardian hand
That holds the way-directing helm;
And now I love thee ten times more,
When threatened is thy rocky shore:
When waves on every side assail,
And adverse winds and tides prevail.
But why should I with sorrow’s flow
Bewail my much loved country’s woe,
And all her coming danger tell;
Enough to me it is to know
I love my native country well.
XVII.
The song went round, the Goblin Groom
Still plied the wine in festal room;
And bumper after bumper flew;
It was I ween a jovial crew.—
What chance had mortal man at drink
With one of charmed degree;
I cannot say, but needs must think
That chance but small could be.
And so it proved, and so they found,
E’er thirty bumper toasts went round.
XVIII.
Why need I tell, why need I show
Humanity debased, laid low;
How some beneath the table lay;
How others strove to get away,
And, tumbling headlong on the floor,
Ne’er reached the fated festal door;
Whilst stammering, incoherently,
Towards the goblin turned an eye;
Still saw him quaff the liquor down;
Still saw him smile, still saw him frown,
As fancied joke, or fancied toast,
Or fancied anger, ruled him most:
And thus he toasting bumpered on,
As long as he was looked upon.
XIX.
And many say they heard the splash,
And jingle of the elfin glass,
Long after all the rest were dead,
And carried lifeless into bed:
But none may tell, for none can say,
Where the unhallowed goblin lay:
But he had beat the sportsmen all,
At drinking in the festal hall;
And soon I’ll show, if luck betide,
How this elf goblin dared to ride.[8]
But now I’ve left them all at rest:
Where is the greatest, and the best?
He, amid D— —h’s lovely groves,
With virtuous footsteps strays the while,
And woos the graces, and the loves,
With many a courtly winning smile.
XX.
Long mayst thou flourish, gallant peer,
For Caledonia owns thee dear,
And bids her fav’rite minstrel tell,
How that she loves her hero well;
Though polished mail no more shall grace,
Oh! S—tt, thy ancient chieftain race:
No more the splintered spear shall sound
On N— —k’s green or D— —h’s ground:
These days are past, and with them, too,
The deeds their chiefs were wont to do:
The towering plume, and nodding crest,
Have with their wearers gone to rest;
And ease and peace may now be seen
In every hamlet, wood, or green.
But nowhere are they seen so true
As round the mansion of B— —h;
Where patriarchal peace is found,
And care in rosy liquor drowned;
Where all of this illustrious line
Together sup, together dine.
And now I’ll cease my minstrel lay,
For time it is I should give up,
But once again, D— —h, I’ll say,
Long may you dine, long may you sup.
END OF CANTO FIRST.
THE GOBLIN GROOM.
Introduction to Canto Second.
TO BENJAMIN BUFFET,
BUTLER TO HIS GRACE THE D—OF B— —H.
Edinburgh.
The cracking cork has pleased my ear,
Has silenced grief, has banished fear;
Has made dark winter’s dreary night
Seem to my senses noonday bright.
December’s cold was then forgot;
The wine was good, the fire was hot:
Thus many a heedless evening flew,
In table-talk, dear Ben, with you.
Though mentioned last in mintrel’s lay,
First in my heart you hold the sway:
For love and interest must combine;
And you are love, and interest wine:
And what must make you still more dear,
They say you have your master’s ear;
And if this rumour, Ben, be true,
Speak well of me to bold B— —h.
Pleasing to me is every scene,
Where, with my dearest friends, I’ve been.
I love the green, I love the grove,
The cavern vast, the neat alcove,
The mountain high, the valley low,
The scenes of friendship all may show.
These scenes I’ve loved, and still adore,
But, Oh! I love the pantry more.
There have I sat, there have I sung,
Have twirled a cork, or rolled a bung;
As infant fancy played her part,
That was a coach, this was a cart.
Those were the days of childish youth,
That promised parts, that promised truth;
For fancy shewed herself in play,
E’en in my earliest infant day:
When older grown, the pantry still
Was dear to me, against my will.
What there was done, I may not tell;
It might not please your master well;
So please me joy, or pierce me woe,
The bold B— —h shall never know.
Enough, the claret is not there;
But you and I both had a share.
And joy, you know, by danger bought,
Is always sweeter, dearer thought:
Regrets for past mistakes are vain,
And pleasure often follows pain.
Pleasure is but an empty sound,
And surely never yet was found:
It reigns but in the poet’s brain;
Reality is always pain:
And reasoning thus, it is my plan,
To be as merry as I can:
And though they say the claret went,
I don’t repine, I won’t repent.
It scarcely seems a summer’s day,
Though years and years have past away,
Since in the pantry’s snug retreat,
I, at the fire, first took my seat.
Oh! how I loved those moments dear;
Oh! how your lessons pleased my ear.
How oft you spoke of N— —k’s tower,
Forgetful of the midnight hour;
Of noble dames, of valiant knights,
Of bloody fields, and listed fights;
Of ancient manners, past and fled;
How S—tts, victorious, fought and bled;
In every combat, strife, or fight,
S—tt was victorious, S—tt was right.
And said I to myself, that they
Shall one time hear my minstrel lay:
That all my powers should then combine,
To praise B— —h’s illustrious line.
Yet whilst I sing the noble race,
My humbler friend shall have a place.
What though the oak be grand to see?
The humbler shrub is dear to me.
The sturdy oak unused to bend,
Too stately looks to be my friend.
So I’m content, and amply paid,
To crouch beneath the expansive shade.
There, wondring at the form sublime,
To friendship’s heights, I dare not climb;
And so I tune my humbler lays,
To notes of wonder, notes of praise.
And thus the minstrel’s efforts tend,
To claim a patron, not a friend.
In you, dear Ben, the shrub I see,
That lowly bows his head like me:
And thus I choose thee for my friend;
For both alike are doomed to bend:
And whilst we bend, and whilst we bow,
The adverse winds may rage and blow.
We need not fear misfortune’s stroke,
While couched beneath the stately oak:
And may that oak long live and last,
That guards us from misfortune’s blast.
Dear Ben, the oak shall have his due,
If bows, and flattering praise will do.
And those, you know, who bow and bend,
Ne’er want a patron, or a friend.
THE GOBLIN GROOM.
CANTO SECOND.
The Fox-Chace.