MESS JOHN. THIS is a very popular story about Ettrick Forest. as well as a part of Annandale and Tweeddale, and is always told with the least variation both by young and old, of any legendary tale I ever heard. It seems, like many others, to be partly founded on facts, with a great deal of romance added; for, if tradition can be in aught believed, the murder of the priest seems well attested: but I do not know if any records mention it. His sirname is said to have been Binram, though some suppose that it was only a nickname; and the mount, under which he was buried, still retains the name of Binram's Corse. If I may then venture a conjecture at the whole of this story, it is nowise improbable that the lass of Craigyburn was some enthusiast in religious matters, or perhaps a lunatic; and that, being troubled with a sense of guilt, and a squeamish conscience, she had, on that account, made several visits to Saint Mary's Chapel to obtain absolution: and it is well known, that many of the Mountain-men wanted only a hair to make a tether of. Might they not then frame this whole story about the sorcery, on purpose to justify their violent procedure in the eyes of their countrymen, as no bait was more likely to be swallowed at that time? But, however it was, the reader has the story, in the following ballad, much as I have it. 57 MESS JOHN. MESS JOHN stood in St. Mary's kirk, The words of peace flowed from his tongue, His face was like the rising moon, Mess John lay on his lonely couch, It was not for the nation's sin, Nor kirk oppressed, that he did mourn; 'Twas for a little earthly flower The bonny Lass of Craigyburn. Whene'er his eyes with her's did meet, They pierced his heart without remede; And when he heard her voice so sweet, Mess John forgot to say his creed. "Curse on our stubborn law," he said, "Give misers wealth, and monarchs power; Pale grew his cheek, and howe his eye, When thinking on her cherry lip, He tried the sermons to compose, He tried it both by night and day; But all his lair and logic failed, His thoughts were aye on bonny May. He said the creed, he sung the mass, The bonny lass of Craigyburn. One day, upon his lonely couch A sudden languor chilled his blood, But first he heard the thunder roll, And then a maid, of beauty bright, With many a wild fantastic air, A silken mantle on her feet Fell down in many a fold and turn, He thought he saw the lovely form Of bonny May of Craigyburn' |