The Goblin Groom: a Tale of Dunse — Story, Setting & Ideas

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

’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.

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).

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;--

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.

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.

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.

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]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Introduction to Canto Second.

_BUTLER TO HIS GRACE THE D--OF B-- --H._

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.

Now crows the cock in Dunse’s streets; The twittering sparrow morning greets; The braying ass his trumpet blew, For well the morning air he knew; And hies the hostler to his care, With bosom light as morning air. The ruddy streaks of infant day On Lammer’s hills and Chiviot’s play; And freshly blows the morning breeze, From Firth of Forth to German seas.

The kennelled pack, with conscious ear, Well know the huntsman to be near; Their deep-toned notes, in concert rise, As to the door each staunch hound flies; And merry were the huntsman’s cries: Full well he knew to cheer each hound, Or quell his riot, by the sound Of angry word, or cracking thong. But now the pack as round they crowd, In notes melodious, and loud, Pour forth their morning song. And, on my soul, the sound was dear, And transport to the huntsman’s ear. Out dashed the pack, a stauncher crew Ne’er snuffed the pearly morning-dew: And soon the huntsman’s sounding thong Has checked the ardour of the throng: In meet procession, quiet, slow, Behind their master’s horse they go: His two assistants after ride, To bring them all to cover side.

Meanwhile the hostled sportsmen rise, With bosoms light, but heavy eyes; For last night’s liquor still remained, And some would liked to’ve lain in bed, To ease a fevered, aching head; But manly pride such ease disdained. So all have risen, and all have dressed, In jockey cap, and scarlet vest; And now they’re met, and seated all At breakfast, in the festal hall: And question after question passed, Who saw the goblin jockey last? Disputes arise, but all agree That mortal man he could not be; And cried they, with a jovial air, Faith, but he drank his liquor fair! The hostess enters in to say, The Goblin Groom had gone away, And who his share of drink should pay. And all agree ’twas passing fair, As he had filled great D-- --h’s chair, That his account for jovial cheer, Should be discharged by D-- --h’s peer.

The hacks are pacing now before The Hostel’s arch projecting door; Full twelve miles off the cover lay; The hunters went at peep of day: And some, I’m told, went over night, To be in better hunting plight. Each sportsman mounts his cover steed, And through the town with fiery speed, Spurs on his ready hack: One thinks a canter gives him grace, Another thinks a trot the pace, And knowingly looks back; And pleased he looks, in sooth to find His cantering comrade left behind. Now one, now t’other takes the lead, As jockey whim directs the speed.