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.