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FROM KILMARNOCK TO
COILSFIELD..IRCCARTON GRAVEYARD--AN ECCENTRIC MISER--A BURNS WORTHY--GRAIGIE
ROAD--SCARGIE--HOWCOMMON--A GOOD JOKE--SCENERY--THE FARM OF LOCH-LEA AND
CRANNOG--THE OLD DWELLING HOUSE AND NEW BARN--THE DEATH OF THE POET’S
FATHER--WILD FLOWERS --THE RIVER AYR--FAILFORD, ETC,
After visiting “The banks
and braes o’ bonnie Doon,” I resolved upon a pilgrimage to the farm of
Lochlea and the various places of interest in its immediate vicinity, for
to it, as we have seen, the Burn’s family removed after a protracted
struggle with adverse circumstances in the locality which formed the goal
of last ramble. The day set apart for the journey being favourable, I
crossed the old bridge at Riccarton, and passed up the village street as
the clock in the church spire announced the hour of ten. Finding the gate
of the churchyard open, I entered and sought out the grave of the Rev.
Alexander Moodie, a Burns hero, “who,” as the weather worn stone states,
“died 15th Feb., 1799, in the 72nd year of his age, and the 40th of his
ministry. He was a zealous auld light preacher, and figures as on of the
herds in the “Holy Tulzie”--a satire on an unseemly quarrel between him
and the Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock:--
“Oh, Moodie, man, and
wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle?
Ye’ll see how New Light herds will whistle,
An’ think it fine:
The L-----’s cause ne’er got sic a twistle
Sin’ I hae min.”
“O, sirs! whae’er wad hae expeckit,
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit,
To wear the plaid;
But by the brutes themselves elecket,
To be their guide.
“What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank!
Nae poisoned sour Arminian stank
He let them taste;
Frae Calvin’s well, ay clear, they drank--
Oh, sic a feast!”
In referring to the
dispute, Robert Chambers makes mention of its origin. “It happened,” says
he, “that a dryness arose between them. The country story is, that as they
were riding home one evening from Ayr, Moodie, is a sportive frame of
mind, amused himself by tickling the rear of his neighbours (the Rev. John
Russell’s) horse. The animal performed several antics along the road, but
greatly to the discomfiture of black Jock, who, afterwards learning the
trick, could not forgive Moodie for it. Afterwards a question of parochial
boundaries arose between them. It came before the Presbytery for
determination. ‘There, in the open court,’ says Mr. Lockhart, ‘to which
the announcement of the discussion had drawn a multitude of the country
people, and Burns among the rest, the reverend divines, hitherto sworn
friends and associates, lost all command of temper, and abused each other
coram populo, with a fiery virulence of personal invective such as has
long been banished from all popular assemblies, wherein the laws of
courtesy are enforced by those of a certain unwritten code. This was too
much temptation for the profane wit of Burns. He lost no time in putting
the affair in allegorical shape.”
The Rev. Mr. Moodie is also
mentioned in “The Kirk’s Alarm,” and his style of oratory is hit off to a
nicety in the following verses of “The Holy Fair”:--
“Now a’ the congregation
o’er
Is silent expectation,
For Moody spiels the holy door
Wi’ tidings o’d----tion.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
‘Mang sons o’ God present him,
The very sight o’ Moodie’s him,
The very sight o’ Moodie’s face
To’s ain het hame had sent him,
Wi’ fright that day.
“Hear how he clears the points o’ faith
Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He’s stampin’ and he’s jumpin’!
His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeal and gestures,
Oh, how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,
On sic a day.”
In the vicinity of Moodie’s
grave are the burying-places of the Cuninghames of Caprington and the
Campbells of Treesbank, and many curiously-carved headstones which will
repay attention; but, with the exception of an eccentric miser who died in
East Shaw Street, Kilmarnock, on the 17th July, 1817, and who is interred
in an out-of-the-way corner near the gate, the unkept sward does not cover
any other very celebrated individual. William Stevenson--as this character
was named--was a native of Dunlop, and at one time filled a respectable
position in society; but, owing to some unexplained cause, he became a
professional beggar, and lived wholly upon charity. In the “Book of Days”
the following curious account of his death and burial may be found:--
“About the year 1787 he and
his wife separated, making the strange agreement that whichever of
them was the first to propose reunion should forfeit one hundred pounds to
the other. It is supposed that they never met afterwards. In 1815, when
about eighty-five years old, Stevenson was seized with an incurable
disease, and was confined to his bed. A few days before his death, feeling
his end to be near, he sent for a baker, and ordered twelve dozen burial
cakes, a large quantity of sugar biscuits, and a good supply of wine and
spirits. He next sent for a joiner, and instructed him to make a good,
sound, dry, roomy coffin; after which he sent for the Riccarton
gravedigger, and requested him to select a favourable spot in a dry and
comfortable corner of the village churchyard, and there dig for him a
roomy grave, assuring him that he would be paid for his trouble. This done
he ordered an old woman who attended him to go to a certain nook and there
bring out nine pounds to pay all these preliminary expenses, telling her
not to grieve for him for he had remembered her in his will. Shortly after
this he died. A neighbour came in to search for his wealth, which had been
shrouded in much mystery. In one bag was found large silver pieces, such
as dollars and half-dollars, crowns and half-crowns, and in a heap of
musty rags a collection of guineas and seven-shilling pieces; while in a
box were found bonds of various amounts, including one for three hundred
pounds, giving altogether a sum of about nine hundred pounds. A will was
also found bequeathing twenty pounds to the old woman who attended him,
and most of the remainder to distant relations, setting aside sufficient
to give a feast to all the beggars in Ayrshire who chose to come and see
his body lie in state. The influx was immense, and after the funeral,
which was attended by a motley group of gaberlunzies, all retired to a
barn that had been fitted up for the occasion, and there indulged in
revelries but little in accordance with the solemn season of death.”
When “the decent church
which tops the neighboring hill” was erected, the quaint, weather-worn
structure which stood in the centre of the churchyard was demolished, and
more the pity, for it was of great antiquity, being in existence,
according to Chalmers, so early as 1229. “The chapel of Ricardtoun,” he
states, “was afterwards established as a parish church, which belonged to
the monks of Paisley; and it remained as such till the Reformation. The
monks, meantime, received the tithes and revenues, while the church was
served by a chaplain who was appointed by them. In a rental of Paisley
Abbey, which was given up to Government in 1562, it was stated that the
monks derived from the church of Richardtoun 17 chalders, 6 bolls, and 1
firlot of meal yearly.”
Upon resuming the journey I
held along the wall of the manse garden and turned into Craigie Road, and
after a brisk walk reached Knowehead, an eminence from which an excellent
view of the surrounding district is obtained. Stroll- ing onward, I passed
through the toll-bar of Shortlees, and soon gained a shady portion of the
road near to the entrance gate of Treesbank estate. Here a nameless burnie
gurgles through a small plantation and gladdens the heart of the wayfarer
with its music as it steals from beneath a small bridge by the roadside.
Its tone was seductive, but despite it and the picturesque scene, I
commenced the ascent of Scargie brae, and soon gained the row of humble
thatch-covered cots which present their gables to the highway.
There is nothing about the
buildings of note, except perhaps the fact that John Burtt, author of
“Horae Poeticae” and “Transient Murmurs of a Solitary Lyre,” spent his
early years in one of them may be of interest. Burtt was for some
considerable time a schoolmaster in Kilmarnock, and afterwards a clergyman
in America; but he is best known on this side of the Atlantic as the
author of several lyrics, and more especially of the following, which is
often mistakenly ascribed by Robert Burns, being supposed to have been
written by the bard after the death of Highland Mary:--
“O’ER THE MIST-SHROUDED
CLIFFS.
“O’er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave,
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm’s gloomy path on the breast of the wave.
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore,
Where the flower that bloomed sweetest in Coila’s green vale,
The pride of my bosom--my Mary’s no more.
No more by the banks of the streamlet we’ll wander,
And smile at the moon’s rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast;
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.”
Leaving Scargie behind, a
pleasant walk along the undulating, hedge-bordered highway brought me to
Knockmarloch and the little plantation which all but conceals the
shattered remnant of its manor house, and ultimately to the base of
Craigie Hill, as a rugged upheaval forming the terminus of a rocky range
of eminences rising to a height of some 550 feet above the level of the
sea is termed. The view from the summit of this locally-famous height is
very fine, comprising as it does the Firth of Clyde, the Coast of Ireland,
the Mull of Kintyre, the Paps of Jura, the heights of Arran, Ben Lomond,
and the Grampians. Landward, Loudoun Hill is also distinctly seen, and on
the plain the town of Kilmarnock, with its surroundings, is witnessed to
great advantage--indeed a better bird’s-eye view of the Land of Burns
cannot well be had, and the pedestrian will do well to avail himself of
it. Entering a rude path or cart-track leading past the lime mines of
Howcommon, I followed the rugged way until it merged into a substantial
parish road, and afterwards steered my course to a farm-house with the
intention of making a certain doubly sure by inquiring the way to Lochlea.
“Doon, ye deevil doon!” cried the stripling addressed, as with a
well-aimed kick he drove away a frolicsome whelp that nearly upset me in a
mud-hole with its great paws while endeavouring to lick my face. “Lochlea!
my certie ye’re a braw bit frae it; but it’s a fine day, and you’ll manage
brawly. Ye’ll be looking’ for calves, nae doubt? “Yes; two legged ones,”
and I, with a significant glance, and without the least suspicion that the
joke would penetrate his dull pate and recoil upon myself. “Then,” said
he, with roguish glee “ye’ll be hard to please gin ye judge ithers by
yoursel’.” He laughed, and I laughed, and the whelp barked, and from that
moment we were friends; and when I left, I did so perfectly satisfied that
if I lost my way the fault would be his, so thoroughly bewildered had I
become with his instructions, ad the intricate windings of the route he
counseled me to follow.
Trusting to perseverance I
returned to the road, and soon gained the extremity of the heath-covered
heights behind which the remote but picuresque village of Craigie nestles.
For a long way the scene was cheerless and barren, and nought was heard
save the cry of the peesweep and the song of the lark; but gradually the
country opened, and a rich agricultural district met the gaze. Arriving at
a very conspicuous farm-house, according to instructions received I
rounded a small pond on the wayside and turned into a hedge-bordered road
on the right, and held onward, for the sun was in its glory, and the whin
and the broom-clad banks and the fields and the green pasture lands looked
luxuriant in the exhilarating rays. At the termination of this road
I found myself in that running between Mauchline and Ayr, but turning to
the left I took the first on the right and held onward. It proved one of
the old sort--steep and rugged--but following its undulating windings, a
two mile walk brought me to the farmstead of Lochlea, and the fields which
Burns furrowed with his plough and reaped with his sickle at harvest time.
The field pertaining to the
farm slope gently to the road, which at this point verges on a low-lying
track of mossy looking land. This at one time formed the bed of the loch
from which the place takes its name. In 1839, when the speculative
proprietor had the water drained off, two canoes of rude manufacture were
discovered near a mound whose summit had formed a kind of island, but they
attracted little attention, and in course of time the circumstance was all
but forgotten. Towards the close of 1878 the marshy nature of the soil
rendered its re-drainage absolutely necessary, and it was subjected to the
operation. When cutting a portion of the mound referred to, the workmen
came upon what they considered to be the remains of a house which
had rested upon piles systematically driven into the ground. The discovery
coming under the notice of Mr. James Brown of TarBolton, a most
intelligent and discriminating gentleman, he at once wrote to Mr. J.
Anderson, keeper of the Museum of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland,
who communicated with R.W. Cochran-Patarick of Woodside, the respected
secretary of the Archaeological Society for the counties of Ayr and
Wigtown, and he proceeded to the scene of operations and at once
recognized in the remains the remnant of a crannog or lake dwelling. In
presence of Mr Cochran-Patrick, Mr Turner (factor of the Duke of
Portland), Mr Anderson, and other gentlemen, a series of systematic
excavations were begun, which in course of time disclosed rows of rude
oaken piles driven firmly into what had been the bed of the loch, and
secured by horizontal beams, planks of oak, and young trees, all of which
were in an excellent state of preservation, and marked by the indentations
of some cutting instruments. The area which the piles enclosed was some 60
feet in diameter. Within it were discovered four pavements of stone, which
upon investigation were found to rest upon layers of clay, boulders, and
logs of oak firmly imbedded and interspersed with charred wood, burnt
bones, and ashes.
From this peculiar
structure three rows of closely-set wooden piles, which had evidently
supported a gangway extending to what had been the shore of the loch, were
also laid bare; but the most curious circumstance connected with the
discovery was the enormous quantity of bones which the excavators met
with. They were strewn about in all directions, and in sufficient
quantities to have filled several carts, and when the writer visited the
spot every turn of the spade disclosed others which were interspersed with
brushwood and small boulders. These bones were evidently the remains of
animals which had been used for food by the occupants of the peculiarity
situated structure which occupied the spot, but who or what they were can
only be conjectured. That they were the primeval inhabitants of the
district, and lived in a rude, barbarous age, however, is evident from the
numerous articles which the explorers brought to light--such as stone
hammers, bone chisels, querns, boars’ tusks, and rudely formed instruments
made of deers’ horns, bone and wood; and also a canoe formed out of a
solid log; a knife of metal, with a yellow ferrule adhering to the remains
of the haft; and a variety of iron and flint implements. Dr Munro of
Kilmarnock took a deep interest in the excavations, the success of which
was greatly owing to his personal exertions, and to his able and elaborate
account of the discovery, which is illustrated with plans, sections, and
drawings of the crannog, I must refer the reader.
The whole of the articles
discovered being found on the ground of the Duke of Portland, were the
property of His Grace; but through the intervention of Mr Turner, he
generously presented them to the town of Kilmarnock, so that they might
form the nucleus of a Museum and be open to the inspection of the curious.
Upon entering the farm-yard
of Lochlea, a glance was sufficient to show that the hand of improvement
had wholly changed its aspect, the buildings surrounding it being modern,
substantial, and slated. In the poet’s time the steading consisted of a
one-storied thatched dwelling house, with a barn on the one side and a
stable and byre on the other. The old dwelling is now converted into a
stable, and a comfortable residence has been erected in its stead; and the
barn, which the poet is said to have roofed with his own hands, thanks to
the Duke of Portland’s factor, Mr Turner, contains at least one stone of
the old fabric. It bears the following inscription:--
“THE LINTEL OF THE POET’S
BARN.
RE-BUILT 1870.”
While surveying the old
dwelling-house strange thoughts passed through my mind. At Whitsunday,
1777, the flitting from Mount Oliphant drew up before its door and the
Burns family entered, and for seven years they valiantly strove to avert
the crisis that had its beginning at the farm they had left. Robert was in
the nineteenth year of his age then, and to him “life was young and love
was new,” but the tender passion had no sooner animated his bosom than he
burst into song and celebrated his amours in verse. Authorship with him
may be said to have had its beginning at Lochlea. Within the old dwelling
he penned many of his early effusions, and, in the language of Dr Currie,
“while the ploughshare under his guidance passed through the sward, or the
grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was humming the songs of his
country, musing on deeds of ancient valour, or wrapt in the illustrations
of fancy as her enchantments rose on his view.” Within the old dwelling,
also, the poet’s father closed his eyes in death. Mrs Begg remembered the
event, and affirmed that he had a presentiment of Robert’s future career,
and more than feared that Robert would wander into paths from which he had
preserved his own footsteps. On the day of his death the old man said that
there was one of his family for whose future conduct he feared. “Oh,
father! is it me you mean?” said Robert. Upon learning that it was, he
turned to the window, and, with smothered sobs and scalding tears,
acknowledged the reproof; but why he did so is more than I can understand,
for his brother Gilbert assured Dr Currie that his temperance and
frugality were everything that could be wished during his residence at
Lochlea.
John Murdoch, a young man
who at one time acted as tutor to the poet and his brothers, tells us that
William Burness was an excellent husband and a tender and affectionate
father, taking a pleasure in leading his children in the path to
virtue--”not in driving them, as some parents do, to the performance of
duties to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault but
very seldom, and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a
kind of reverential awe; a look of disapprobation was felt, a reproof was
severly so, and a stripe with the taws, even on the skirt of the coat,
gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, and brought forth a
flood of tears. He had,” we are told, “the art of gaining the esteem and
good-will of those that were labours under him.” In fact, “he practiced
every known duty, and avoided everything that was criminal; or, in the
Apostle’s words, ‘Herein did he exercise himself in living a life void of
offence towards God and towards men.’” His sons are no less earnest in
their expressions of admiration for their father. Gilbert says:--”My
father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He conversed
familiarly on all subjects with us as if we had been men, and was at great
pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the
conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our knowledge, or
confirm us in virtuous habits.” Robert, again, writing in February,
1784, says:--”On the 13th curt. I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be
sure, we have had long warning of the impending stroke, still the feelings
of nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments
and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors
without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly
condemn.”
The present guidman of
Lochlea is William Spiers, Esq., late of Shortlees, in the parish of
Riccarton, a jolly good-natured farmer, who is at all times glad to see
visitors. I found him affable, jocular, and hospitable, and will not
readily forget the pleasant hour spent with him in his spacious kitchen,
nor the courtesy of his amiable daughter,
“A dancing’ sweet, young,
handsome queen,
O’ guileless heart.”
With a lingering look at
the wall of the old dwelling wherein Burns spent some of the happiest days
of his life, I returned to the road and resumed my journey, having
determined to enter Tarbolton by way of Coilsfield--a round-about approach
certainly, but nevertheless best suited to my purpose, because it winds
through scenery immortalised by our Poet, and past places associated with
the most pathetic passage in the history of his life. Passing up the road,
which somewhat steep and skirted form some distance by a plantation of
young firs, I arrived in the highway between Mauchline and Tarbolton, near
to the toll-bar of Mossbog. The country here is unattractive, being
composed of undulating uplands which rise from the bank of the river Ayr,
and slope downwards in the direction of Lochlea. After indulging in a
little gossip with the toll-wife, as she sat knitting a stocking by the
door of her cot, I turned down a road on the right, and, according to her
instructions, held “straight on.” The way proved long, hilly, and
thoroughly rustic, being skirted on the left for a considerable distance
with a long strip of pleasant woodland, through which the sunshine glinted
as if toying with the bramble bushes in its shade. The knolls by the
wayside were decked with tufts of fragrant broom and whin, and spangled
with many a “bonnie gem” which the summer sun had called from dust to
splendour. Dear wild flowers--
“Like orphan children
silent, lone,
I’ve met you spread o’er wild and moor,
Where wand’ring ye have cheer’d me on
And sooth’d me, ramble-toil’d and poor.
“I’ve seen you when the matin ray
First dawn’d upon the purpling east,
Your petals ope, and noiseless pray,
More eloquent than cassock’d priest.
“Sweet teachers, you from green hillside
Brathe fragrance forth to sooth and cheer
The heart of those whose tread of pride
Has mad thy beauties disappear.”
At the termination of this
really pleasant walk I found myself in the highway between Mauchline and
Ayr, and in the immediate vicinity of Coilsfield. Passing through the
toll-bar of Woodhead the scene suddenly changed from the commonplace to
that of the most romantic description, for down in the a gorge by the
wayside,
“Ayr gurgline kissed its
pebbled shore
O’erhung with wildwoods thick’ning green,”
and dashed its waters into
foam against fragments of rock as it rolled on its way. The scene was
enchanting, and to enjoy it more fully I descended to the water edge and
sat down on a mossy bank to rest and gaze on the beautiful scene. How long
I remained it is unnecessary to say, but when the journey was resumed it
was with a more elastic step and happier frame of mind, for
“The saddest heart might
pleasure take
To see a scene so far.”
Reaching Failford--a
cluster of neat cottages at the mouth of the rivulet from which the place
takes its name--a pleasant walk along a beautiful wood-fringed road
brought me to the entrance gate of the grounds which surround Coilsfield
House, one of the most romantically situated mansions in the country--but
it will be as well to reserve the account of it and King Coil’s grave for
next chapter. |
