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The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular tenure; the pr being bound to sit upon a large rocky fragme the Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a h the king shall come to hunt on the Boroug! Edinburgh. Hence, the family have ado crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a motto, Free for a Blast. The beautiful of Pennycuik is much admired, both of architecture and surrounding scenery.

Note 2. Stanza xvii To Auchendinny's hazel P Auchendinny, situated upon the cuik, the present residence of th kenzie, Esq. author of The Man

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LADS AND LYRICAL PIECES.

vave,

ue swell;rave! arewell!»

D HUNTSMEN.

457

Some account of him may be found in « Sully's Memoirs,» who says he was called Le Grand Veneur. At

time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the ndants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came ut into the court, supposing it was the sound of the sing returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called Saint Hubert.

n, or rather an imitation, of the German poet Bürger. The tradition founded bears, that formerly a Wildr of a royal forest, named Falkenburg. addicted to the pleasures of the chase, se so extremely profligate and cruel, that y followed this unhallowed amusement on th, and other days consecrated to religious it accompanied it with the most unheard-of on upon the poor peasants who were under his age. When this second Nimrod died, the people ted a superstition, founded probably on the many ous uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German rest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sound of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the spectre Huntsman cheered bis hounds, he could not refrain from crying, « Gluck , Falkenburg!» (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg!)Dost thou wish me good sport?» answered a hoarse roice; thou shalt share the game; and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany.

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of Fontainebleau. He was sometimes visible; when he appeared as a lantsman, surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure.

The superstition seems to have been very general, as appears from the following fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Rossshire.

Ere since, of old, the haughty thanes of Ross,-
So to the simple swain tradition tells,-
Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throng'd,
To wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf,
There oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon,
Beginning faint, but rising still more loud,
And nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds,
And horns hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen :-
Forthwith the hubbub multiplies; the gale
Labours with wilder shrieks and rifer din
Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer
Mangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men,
And hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill.
Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale

Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears
Tingle with inward dread. Aghast, he eyes
The mountain's height, and all the ridges round,
Yet not one trace of living wight discerns;
Nor knows, o'erawed, and trembling as he stands,
To what, or whom, be owes his idle fear,
To ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend;
But wonders, and no end of wondering finds.

Scottish Descriptive Poems, pp. 167, 168.

A posthumous miracle of Father Lesly, a Scottish capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his sainted reliques had been deposited there, the noise was never heard more. The reader will find this, and other miracles, recorded in the life of Father Bonaventura, which is written in the choicest Italian.

THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

And thronging serfs their lord pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,

Dash through the bush, the briar, the brake: While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd:

But still the Wildgrave onward rides;

Halloo, halloo! and hark again! When, spurring from opposing sides,

Two Stranger Horsemen join the train.

Who was each Stranger, left and right, Well may I guess, but dare not tell; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

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Hark! for now a solemn knell

Four times on the still night broke: Four times at its deaden'd swell,

Echoes from the ruins spoke.

As the lengthen'd clangors die, Slowly opes the iron door; Straight a banquet met his eye, But a funeral's form it wore!

Coffins for the seats extend;

All with black the board was spread; Girt by parent, brother, friend,

Long since number'd with the dead!

Alice in her grave-clothes bound,
Ghastly smiling, points a seat;
All arose, with thundering sound;
All the expected stranger greet.

High their meagre arms they wave,

Wild their notes of welcome swell ;

« Welcome, traitor, to the grave! Perjured, bid the light farewell!»

THE WILD HUNTSMEN.

THIS is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wilde Jager of the German poet Bürger. The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, named Falkenburg. was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sound of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the spectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, « Gluck zu, Falkenburg!» (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg!)— Dost thou wish me good sport?» answered a hoarse voice; thou shalt share the game; and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany.

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of Fontainebleau. He was sometimes visible; when he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure.

Some account of him may be found in « Sully's Memoirs,» who says he was called Le Grand Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called Saint Hubert.

The superstition seems to have been very general, as appears from the following fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Rossshire.

Ere since, of old, the haughty thanes of Ross,-
So to the simple swain tradition tells,-
Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throng'd,
To wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf,
There oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon,
Beginning faint, but rising still more loud,
And nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds,
And horns hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen :-
Forthwith the hubbub multiplies; the gale
Labours with wilder shrieks and rifer din

Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer
Mangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men,
And boofs thick beating on the hollow hill.
Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale

Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears
Tingle with inward dread. Aghast, he eyes
The mountain's height, and all the ridges round,
Yet not one trace of living wight discerns;
Nor knows, o'erawed, and trembling as he stands,
To what, or whom, he owes his idle fear,
To ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend;
But wonders, and no end of wondering finds.

Scottish Descriptive Poems, pp. 167, 168.

A posthumous miracle of Father Lesly, a Scottish capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his sainted reliques had been deposited there, the noise was never heard more. The reader will find this, and other miracles, recorded in the life of Father Bonaventura, which is written in the choicest Italian.

THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

And thronging serfs their lord pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,

Dash through the bush, the briar, the brake: While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd:

But still the Wildgrave onward rides;

Halloo, halloo! and hark again! When, spurring from opposing sides,

Two Stranger Horsemen join the train.

Who was each Stranger, left and right, Well may I guess, but dare not tell; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

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