The church has disappeared; and the little lonely churchyard bears a number of old tombstones, partly covered here and there with tangled bushes, doubtless planted by affectionate hands, but long ago grown wild. Only one pillared, showy tombstone is in the place, in remembrance of an Edinburgh hatter. Erecting such a tombstone in such a place was an act as much out of keeping, so to speak, as it would be to whitewash an abbey.
In this burial-ground lie the remains of many a famous outlaw; and among Border warriors and rievers the church was held in high esteem. It holds a place in many traditions and many ballads. The Lord William and Lady Margaret of the Douglas tragedy are buried here; and the scene of the tragedy, where Lady Margaret’s brothers fell before the sword of her lover, is on Douglas Burn, within a few miles of the church- yard. We did not notice the intertwined bonny red rose and brier, reported to have grown on their graves, a floral phenomenon which modern minstrels of the Cowel school take much delight in.
Here also lie the remains of Percy Cockburn of Henderland, whose ruined tower still stands in the adjoining vale of Meggat. When, in 1529, James V. made his memorable raid among the rievers, and hanged, among others, Johnnie Armstrong, and Adam Scott the King of the Border, he surprised Cockburn while at dinner, and hanged him over his own gate, amid the exultation of his followers. His body was left with his weeping wife, who had not a living creature near her. Alone she sewed his shroud, and afterwards bore his corpse to St. Mary’s Kirk:
I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat;
I digged a grave and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod so green.
But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the mouls on his yellow hair?
And think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about awa to gae?
Dryhope Tower, a fine old Border peel, in which “Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow,” was born, stands within view of St. Mary’s Kirk, near the foot of the lake; and Bowerhope stands opposite, on the far side of the lake, nestling among trees at the foot of a rugged glen, and the high background of hills, pile on pile, seems to terminate among the clouds. Away to the right, nearly hid by trees, and standing on a narrow neck of land, dividing St. Mary’s and the Loch o’ the Lowes, is the house of Tibbie Shiel—St. Mary’s Cot. Within a very short space of the cottage stands the monument recently erected to the Ettrick Shepherd. It is a graceful pedestal, crowned by a sitting figure of the Shepherd overlooking his favourite lakes and hills. St. Mary’s Loch, perhaps, looks better from the lonely churchyard than anywhere.
Long ago these lakes were regularly visited in the winter season by wild swans,—now, however, they never appear. Falconidæ of different kinds frequent, and some nest in, the district. Both the golden eagle and the osprey were frequent visitors long ago; and many of the older people say that, in their younger days, eagles were seen every year in the district. For a number of years, however, no eagle has been seen. The last that our friend saw he had cause to remember. Some twelve years ago, riding along a hill-side facing the lake, he saw above him, perched on a large stone, what he thought was an eagle, but, from its being within fifty or sixty yards of him, he could scarcely think his conjecture correct, eagles being, as he knew, so wild. He accordingly turned his horse’s head up hill towards the bird, for the purpose of ascertaining what it was. He was soon certain it was an eagle, and, thinking that it must be lame, he got his whip ready to strike it down. But, just as he was about to lift his hand, it suddenly spread its great wings and flew off with a scream. From that moment he remembered the bird no more for many weeks; for his pony suddenly wheeled as the eagle flew off, and in trying to gallop down the steep hill, fell, heels over head, and crushed and bruised his rider to such an extent that he remained insensible for a considerable time, and unfit, for upwards of a year, to attend to his ordinary duties.
We thought it strange to see the venerable Tibbie Shiels in the flesh; for in the racy writings of the late Professor Wilson, written upwards of thirty years ago, in which we first became acquainted with her name, we looked upon her merely as a “character,” a sort of “Meg Dodds.” We had a long crack with the old lady, however, and found her very communicative and agreeable, and with an intellect apparently unimpaired, though she is nearly eighty years of age.
She asked us if we had read the Noctes Ambrosianæ enacted at her house, and was pleased when informed that we had.
“That was the greatest day,” said she, “we ever had i’ the house, for the Professor, ye see, invited maist o’ the gentry round, and brought some frae Edinburgh wi’ him. Ye’ll hae seen the thing Mr. Chambers (it was Robert) wrote in his ‘Journal’ too. Little did I ken, when he was gettin’ me to tell about sae many things, that he was gaun to prent it a’. And, mind ye, he’s a droll ane, for he put a hantle things in the book that I never said. But he’s a frank, nice man.”
Of Professor Wilson and Hogg she spoke with the greatest respect and esteem.
“How was it, do you think, Tibbie,” we said, “that so many farmers and others in Yarrow thought so lightly of Mr. Hogg?”
“Weel, sir, I think that this was ane o’ the things that made the aulder folk no like him: He was a guid fiddler, ye ken, and he was pleasant, nice company, and wi’ his fiddle at night, when he was a young chield, he could get a’ the lassies he asked after him to dancings here and there, whilk keepet them late often; and sair the auld folk ca’d him for’t. A kinder hearted man ye couldna find than Mr. Hogg. Him and the Professor were guid, kind friens o’ mine.”
We saw several people who knew Hogg intimately, a number of them shepherds, and all spoke of his kindly, genial nature. One old man had neighboured him for many years, and although
