THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.

THIS ballad, according to Sir Walter Scott, is one of the few to which popular tradition has ascribed complete locality. The farm of Blackhouse, in Selkirkshire, is said to have been the scene of this melancholy event. There are the remains of a very ancient tower, adjacent to the farmhouse, in a wild and solitary glen, upon a torrent, named Douglas-burn, which joins the Yarrow after passing a craggy rock called the Douglas-craig.

"From this ancient tower Lady Margaret is said to have been carried by her lover. Seven large stones, erected upon the neighbouring heights of Blackhouse, are shown as marking the spot where the seven brethren were slain; and the Douglas-burn is averred to have been the stream at which the lovers stopped to drink: so minute is tradition in ascertaining the scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state of former times, had probably foundation in some real event."

"RISE up, rise up now, Lord Douglas," she says,

"And put on your armour so bright;

Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine
Was married to a lord under night.

Rise up,

rise up, my seven bold sons,

And put on your armour so bright,

And take better care of your youngest sister,

For your eldest's awa the last night."

He's mounted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple grey,

With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And lightly they rode away.

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,

To see what he could see,

And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold,
Come riding over the lee.

"Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brethren bold, And your father, I mak' a stand."

She held his steed in her milk-white hand,
And never shed one tear,

Until that she saw her seven brethren fa',

And her father hard fighting, who lov'd her so dear.

"O hold your hand, Lord William," she said,
66 For your strokes they are wond'rous sair;
True lovers I can get many a ane,

But a father I can never get mair."

O she's ta'en out her handkerchief,
It was o' the holland sae fine,

And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,
That were redder than the wine.

"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margret," he said,
"O whether will ye gang or bide?"
"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William,” she said,
"For ye have left me nae other guide."

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,

And himself on a dapple grey,

With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And slowly they baith rade away.

O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they came to yon wan water,
And there they lighted down.

They lighted down to tak' a drink
Of the spring that ran sae clear;

And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,
And sair she gan to fear.

"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, "For I fear that you are slain !"

""Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, That shines in the water sae plain."

O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door,
And there they lighted down.

"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
"Get up, and let me in!—

Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
"For this night my fair ladye I've win.

"O mak' my bed, lady mother," he says,
"O mak' it braid and deep!

And lay Lady Margret close at my back,
And the sounder I will sleep."

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
Lady Margret lang ere day-

And all true lovers that go thegither,

May they have mair luck than they!

Lord William was buried in St Mary's kirk, Lady Margaret in Mary's quire;

Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' the knight's a brier.

And they twa met, and they twa plat,
And fain they wad be near ;

And a' the warld might ken right weel,
They were twa lovers dear.

But by and rade the Black Douglas,
And wow but he was rough!
For he pull'd up the bonny brier,

And flang't in St Mary's Loch.

LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT.

THE hero of this ballad was John, seventh Lord Maxwell, who, in the year 1613, was beheaded at the cross of Edinburgh for the murder of the Laird of Johnston. Between the Maxwells and the Johnstons there had been a longstanding feud. They were the two most powerful families in the south-west of Scotland; and in case of any political outbreak or disturbance, the chieftains almost invariably took opposite sides. In 1585, John, sixth Lord Maxwell, was denounced as a rebel on account of his opposition to the government of the Earl of Arran; and according to the wretched practice of the times, the Laird of Johnston received a commission to proceed against him. This was an unlucky adventure, for the Maxwells not only defeated the Johnstons, but set fire to the castle of Lochwood, the chief seat of that name.

Eight years afterwards, in 1593, Maxwell, being restored to royal favour, was Warden of the West Marches, and in his turn received a commission to proceed against the Johnstons. But these royal commissions were of unfortunate consequence, for on this occasion the Lord Maxwell was slain, some say by the hand of his rival, in a combat at Dryfe's Sands. It will hardly be credited, but it is nevertheless true, that, in order to keep alive and stimulate the unholy passion of revenge, the body of the slaughtered lord was not committed to the earth until the year 1597, when a peremptory order from the King and Council was issued, ordaining his representative to have the body buried in the ordinary place of sepulture, within twenty days, under pain of rebellion.