MALCOLM'S HEIR. A TALE OF WONDER. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. 294-308.

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MALCOLM'S HEIR . A TALE OF WONDER .
O , go not by Dunorloch's walls When the moon is in the wane , And cross not o'er Dunorloch's bridge , The farther bank to gain ! For there the Lady of the Stream In dripping robes you'll spy , A-singing to her pale wan babe An eldrich lullaby . And stop not at the house of Merne , On the eve of good Saint John ; For then the swathed knight walks his rounds With many a heavy moan . All swathed is he in coffin-weeds , And a wound is in his breast , And he points still to the gloomy vault , Where they say his corse doth rest . But pass not near Glencroman's Tower , Though the sun shine e'er so bright ; More dreaded is that in the noon of day Than these in the noon of night . The night-shade rank grows in the court , And snakes coil in the wall , And bats lodge in the rifted spire , And owls in the murky hall . On it there shines no cheerful light , But the deep-red setting sun Gleams bloody red on its battlements , When day's fair course is run . And fearfully in night's pale beams , When the moon peers o'er the wood , Its shadow grim stretched on the ground Lies blackening many a rood . No sweet bird's chirping there is heard , No herd-boy's horn doth blow ; But the owlet hoots and the pent blast sobs , And loud croaks the carrion-crow . No marvel ! for within its walls Was done the deed unblest , And in its noisome vaults the bones Of a father's murderer rest . He laid his father in the tomb , With deep and solemn woe , As rumour tells , but righteous Heaven Would not be mocked so . There rest his bones in the mouldering earth , By lord and by carl forgot ; But the foul , fell spirit , that in them dwelt , Rest hath it none , I wot ! " Another night , " quoth Malcolm's heir , As he turned him fiercely round , And closely clenched his ireful hand , And stamped upon the ground ; — " Another night within your walls I will not lay my head , Though the clouds of Heaven my roof shall be , And the cold dank earth my bed . " Your younger son has now your love , And my stepdame false your ear ; And his are your hawks , and his are your hounds , And his are your dark-brown deer . " To him you have given your noble steed , As fleet as the passing wind ; But me have you shamed before my friends , Like the son of a base-born hind . " Soft answer made the white-haired chief , Dim was his tearful eye , — " Proud son , thy anger is all too keen , Thy spirit is all too high : " Yet rest this night beneath my roof , The wind blows cold and shrill , With to-morrow's dawn , if it so must be , Even follow thy wayward will . " Yet nothing moved was Malcolm's heir , And never a word did he say ; But cursed his father in his heart , And sternly strode away . And his coal-black steed he mounted straight , As twilight gathered round , And at his feet , with eager speed , Ran Swain , his faithful hound . Loud rose the blast , yet nevertheless , With furious speed rode he , Till night , like the gloom of a caverned mine , Had closed o'er tower and tree . Loud rose the blast , thick fell the rain , Keen flashed the lightning red , And loud the awful thunder roared O'er his unsheltered head . At length full close before him shot A flash of sheeted light , And the high arched gate of Glencroman's Tower Glared on his dazzled sight . His steed stood still , nor step would move , Up looked his faithful Swain , And wagged his tail , and feebly whined ; He lighted down amain . Through porch and court he passed , and still His listening ear he bowed , Till , beneath the hoofs of his trampling steed , The paved hall echoed loud . And other echoes answer gave From arches wide and grand ; Close to his horse and his faithful dog , He took his fearful stand . The night-birds shrieked from the creviced roof , And the fitful wind sung shrill , Yet , ere the mid-watch of the night , Were all things hushed and still . But in the mid-watch of the night , When hushed was every sound , Faint doleful music reached his ear , As if rising from the ground . And loud and louder still it waxed , And upward still it wore , Till it seemed at the end of the farthest aisle To enter the eastern door . O ! never did music of mortal make Such dismal sounds contain ; A horrid eldrich dirge it seemed , — A wild unearthly strain . The yell of pain and the wail of woe , And the short , shrill shriek of fear , Through the winnowing sound of a furnace flame Confusedly struck his ear ; And the serpent's hiss , and the tiger's growl , And the famished vulture's cry , Were mixed at times , as with measured skill , In this horrid harmony . Up bristled the locks of Malcolm's heir , And his heart it quickly beat , And his trembling steed shook under his hand , And Swain cowered close to his feet . When lo ! a faint light , through the porch , Still strong and stronger grew , And shed on the walls and the lofty roof Its wan and dismal hue . And slowly entering then appeared , Approaching with soundless tread , A funeral band in dark array , As in honour of the dead . The first that walked were torch-men ten To lighten their gloomy road , And each wore the face of an angry fiend , And on cloven goat's feet trod ; And the next that walked as mourners meet , Were murderers twain and twain , With bloody hands and surtout red , Befouled with many a stain ; Each with a cut cord round his neck , And red-strained starting een , Shewed that , upon the gibbet tree His earthly end had been ; And after these in solemn state There came an open bier , Borne on black , shapeless , rampant forms , That did but half appear . And on that bier a corse was laid , As corse could never lie , That did , by decent hands composed , In nature's struggles die . Nor stretched , nor wound , but every limb In strong distortion lay , — As in the throes of a violent death , Is fixed the lifeless clay ; And in its breast was a broken knife , With the black-blood oozing slow ; And its face was the face of an aged man , With locks of the winter snow : Its features were fixed in horrid strength , And the glaze of its half-closed eye A last dread parting look expressed , Of woe and agony . But oh I that horrid form to trace , Which followed it close behind , In fashion of the chief mourner , What words shall minstrel find ? In his lifted hand , with straining grasp , A broken knife he prest , The other half of the cursed blade Was that in the corse's breast . And in his blasted , horrid face Full strongly marked , I ween , The features of the aged corse , In life's full prime were seen . Ay ; gnash thy teeth and tear thy hair , And roll thine eyeballs wild , Thou horrible , accursed son , With a father's blood defiled ! Back from the corse , with strong recoil , Still onward as they go , Doth he in vain his harrowed head And writhing body throw ; For closing round , a band of fiends Full fiercely with him deal , And force him o'er the bier to bend , With their fangs of red-hot steel . Still on they moved , and stopped at length In the midst of the trembling hall , When the dismal dirge from its loudest pitch , Sunk to a dying fall . But what of horror next ensued , No mortal tongue can tell , For the thrilled life paused in Malcolm's heir , In a death-like trance he fell . The morning rose with cheerful light On the country far and near , But neither in country , town , nor tower , Could they find Sir Malcolm's heir . They sought him east , they sought him west , O'er hill and dale they ran , And met him at last on the blasted heath , A crazed and wretched man . He will to no one utter his tale , But the Priest of Saint Cuthbert's Cell , And aye , when the midnight warning sounds , He hastens his beads to tell .
NOTE . The yell of pain , and the wail of woe , And the short , shrill shriek of fear , Through the winnowing sound of a furnace flame , &c .

In Miss Holford's ( now Mrs. Hodson ) Margaret of Anjou , there is an assemblage of sounds , preceding a scene of terrific incantation , which is finely imagined , and produces a powerful effect ; and this passage in the above ballad may , perhaps , lead the reader to suppose that I had that description in my mind when I wrote it . Had this been the case , I should have owned it readily . But the Ballad of Malcolm's Heir was written several years before the publication of that Poem ; and in the hands of the immediate friends of my own family ; though as no copy of it was ever given away , it was impossible it could ever reach further . I , therefore , claim it , though acknowledging great inferiority , as a coincidence of thought with that distinguished Author .

" Their senses reeled , for every sound Which the ear loves not , filled the air ; Each din that reason might confound Echoed in ceaseless tumult there ; Swift whirling wheels , — the shriek intense Of one who dies by violence ; Yell , hoarse and deep , from blood-hound's throat ; The night-crow's evil-boding note ; Such wild and chattering sounds as throng Upon the moon-struck idiot's tongue : The roar of bursting flames , the dash Of waters wildly swelling round , Which unrestrained by dyke or mound , Leap down at once with hideous crash . " MARGARET OF ANJOU , Cant. VII .