CHAPTER XII WOMEN OF LETTERS IN the ... - Electric Scotland
CHAPTER XII WOMEN OF LETTERS IN the ... - Electric Scotland
CHAPTER XII WOMEN OF LETTERS IN the ... - Electric Scotland
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SCOTTISH MEN <strong>OF</strong> <strong>LETTERS</strong><br />
through a glen in <strong>the</strong> neighbourhood, one day heard a shepherd playing on a flute<br />
an air which took his fancy, and asked Alison Ru<strong>the</strong>rford to fit appropriate verses<br />
to <strong>the</strong> tune. It was that of <strong>the</strong> “Flowers of <strong>the</strong> Forest,” a lament over those who had<br />
fallen on Flodden Field. Like many ano<strong>the</strong>r song, its original words had been lost,<br />
leaving little more than <strong>the</strong> air behind it. Some lines lingered still on peasant ears<br />
of which Miss Jean Elliot of Minto could only remember [Sir W. Scott’s Familiar Letters, ii.<br />
354.] -<br />
I ride single on saddle,<br />
For <strong>the</strong> flowers of <strong>the</strong> forest are a’ wede awa’.<br />
According to Sir Walter Scott, <strong>the</strong> ballad was meant to bewail <strong>the</strong> pecuniary<br />
ruin in a commercial crisis of seven Border lairds; but of such a local catastrophe it<br />
is happily not too suggestive. Whatever its origin and date may be it made her fame,<br />
and in a thousand homes of <strong>Scotland</strong>, from flute and spinnet and violin, came forth<br />
<strong>the</strong> olden air, and from voices of Scots ladies in full-throated pathos came forth <strong>the</strong><br />
familiar words:<br />
I've seen <strong>the</strong> smiling<br />
Of fortune’s beguiling,<br />
I’ve felt its favours and found its decay;<br />
Sweet was its blessing,<br />
Kind its caressing,<br />
But now ’tis fled - fled far away.<br />
I’ve seen <strong>the</strong> morning<br />
With gold <strong>the</strong> hills adorning,<br />
And loud tempest storming before <strong>the</strong> mid-day.<br />
I’ve seen Tweed’s sillar streams,<br />
Glittering in <strong>the</strong> sunny beams,<br />
Grow drumly and dark as <strong>the</strong>y row’d on <strong>the</strong>ir way;<br />
The strain is somewhat artificial; it lacks <strong>the</strong> simplicity of <strong>the</strong> fine old Scots<br />
lyrics; but it has its own beauty. Nimble with her pen, clever in her verses, it is on<br />
<strong>the</strong> one song Mrs. Cockburn’s reputation lasts; and, strictly speaking, she cannot<br />
claim <strong>the</strong> title of a “woman of letters” except from her copious correspondence.<br />
This woman had <strong>the</strong> kindliest of souls - “<strong>the</strong> friend of all young folk, <strong>the</strong><br />
confidant of all love-sick hearts.” [Lives of <strong>the</strong> Lindsays, ii. 312.] There were merry<br />
dancings in <strong>the</strong> tiny sitting-room of her flat in Blair Street near <strong>the</strong> Castle, led by