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HOODSHILL--AN ANCIENT
CUSTOM--THE SCENE OF “DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK”--”WILLIE’S MILL”--GRANNIE
HAY’S RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS AND THE MILLER’S WIFE--A SOUVENIR OF THEIR
FRIENDSHIP--TARBOLTON CHURCH AND CHURCHYARD--THE VILLAGE SMITHY--A WALK TO
TORRCROSS AND ITS OBJECT--”BROTHER BURNS”--FAIL CASTLE--THE FRIARS--THE
WARLOCK LAIRD AND HIS CANTRIPS--ADAM HILLL--HOME AGAIN.
Few streets are more
intimately associated with the memory of Robert Burns than that which
branches off Tarbolton Cross. It is very appropriately bears his name, and
was often traversed by him when residing at Lochlea and Mossgiel. In fact,
it was and still is the direct line of communication between these farms
and clachan, which, as we have seen, was a favourite resort of his when
residing in the neighbourhood. Being aware that the poet toddled down it
when returning from the Masonic meeting at which he had the famous dispute
with the village pedagogue that provoked the satire of “Death of Dr.
Hornbook,” I did the same, and soon arrived at a humble thatched cottage
which stands at the right hand corner of its extremity. It is now occupied
as a dwelling-house, but it was at one time a portion of a noted inn, and
is now memorable as the house wherein the brethren of St. David’s lodge of
Freemasons held their meeting and initiated the bard into the mysteries of
their craft. Mr. Neil Murchy, who is in possession of the chair, toddy
ladle, and drinking glass of this the mother lodge of Robert Burns, kindly
allowed me to inspect the old minute-book of the society, and from it the
following interesting extract is taken: “Sederunt for July 4th
(1781)--Robert Burns, in Lochly, was entered an apprentice.--Signed,
Joseph Norman.” “Sederunt, October 1st, 1781.--”Robert Burns, in Lochly,
was passed and raised, Henry Cowan being master, James Humphrey being
senior warden, and Alexander Smith, junior; and Robert Wodrow, secretary;
and F. Manson, treasurer; and John Tannock, James Taylor, and others of
the brethren being present.--Joseph Norman, W.M.”
At the cot referred to, a
road turns abruptly to the right and winds round the base of a lofty green
mound from which the village takes its name. [Tor, or Thor-Bol0ton, or
town is the Town at Baal’s hill, i.e., the town at the hill where Baal was
worshipped.--New Statistical Account.] Paterson affirms in his history of
the county that it was used as a place of Pagan worship long before the
era of Christianity, and goes on to say that it would seem, from the
remains of trenches, that it had been used as an encampment, probably by
the ancient Britons, or during the Scot-Irish wars. It is more certain,
however, that it was the hill of which the open Courts of Justice, or
Justice-aires of the district, were regularly held, and that fire worship
was practiced on it is probable from the immemorial custom of the annual
kindling of bonfires near its summit. “On the evening preceding the
Tarbolton June Fair a piece of fuel is demanded [by the boys of the
village] at each house, and is invariably given by the poorest inhabitant.
The fuel so collected is carried to a particular part of the hill where
there is an altar or circular fire-place of turf about three feet in
height, and is placed upon the altar. A huge bonfire is kindled, and many
of its inhabitants, old and young, men and women, assemble on the hill and
remain for hours apparently chiefly occupied with observing a feat
performed by the youths who are to be seen leaping with indefatigable zeal
upon the altar or turf wall enclosing the ashes of former fires and
supporting the present one.”** Instead of going :round about the hill,” as
Burns tells us he did when he had the imaginary interview with Death, I
turned into a path fronting a row of unpretentious dwellings and ascended
to the top of the mound, for from it an excellent view of Willie’s Mill
and its surroundings is obtained. This celebrated building stands in a
vale on the banks of the Fail and is little more than three hundred yards
from the village, but, saving the name, it is wholly changed since the
days of the poet, and I suppose no more like the place he frequented than
the farm-steading is where he dwelt and composed the verses which have
made it so widely known; but nevertheless, although only a slight degree
associated with his name, visitors come from all quarters and gaze with a
kind of reverence upon it and the humble thatch-covered cots by its side.
From the elevated position, I descended to the main road which seeps round
the base of the hill, and toddled down to Willie’s Mill, passing on my way
the spot where Burns and Death are supposed to have “eased their shank”
and held the memorable conversation about “Jock Hornbook I’ the Clachan,”
and the means he employed to foil the dread spectre of his prey. The seats
are situated about half-way between the hill and the mill, and consists of
a portion of rock which just out from beneath a high hedge by the wayside,
but whether it is due to enthusiastic visitors sitting down or the
exertions of the boys that mould is prevented from gathering and grass
growing on them I am not prepared to say, but I am a little suspicious
that it is owing to the latter that they are so well preserved.
At the foot of the brae a
small stream of water foamed from beneath the road and surged onward to a
waterwheel laboriously revolving behind the mill a short distance off.
Passing a byre and a thatch-covered dwelling-house I entered the mill, and
found the miller and his man busy among sacks of grain; but in answer to
the question, “Have you anything connected with Burns here?” they at once
left off their labour and entered into conversation. “We have a barrow
that was about the place when the friend of Burns leev’d in’t,” said a
dusty denizen as he produced an old-fashioned two-wheeled hurly, whose
moth-eaten spokes and trundles bespoke the tear and wear of former years.
“In what way it is connected with Burns?” said I. “Atweel, I dinna ken,”
was the reply, “but there’s little doubt that Burns has often had it in
his hand.” “O yes,” added the miller, “an’ a lady frae America wanted to
buy it, an’ gin I’d selt it she’d taen it hame wi’ her.” “And what on
earth would she have done with it?” I enquired. “O, she said that she
would place the poet’s portrait in’t.” “What!” I exclaimed, “place the
portrait of the bard n a wheelbarrow!” and I laughed at the absurdity of
the proposal. The miller proved racy of speech and very obliging. After
pointing out that the mill was not wholly rebuilt as supposed, and showing
me the water wheel, he accompanied me to the road and bade me a cordial
good-bye.
The parish mill of
Tarbolton--or “Willie’s Mill,” as it is called-was for many years tenanted
by Mr. William Muir, an intimate friend of the Burns family. The poet
frequented it when residing n the neighbourhood, and on many occasions
assisted his friend in the mill, and doubtless often used the barrow
referred to in the laborious operation of shifting sacks from place to
place. In fact, this is borne out by the interesting gleanings of the Rev.
Hately Waddel, for, in referring to his gift of eloquence and
story-telling, he says:-- “When assisting at the mill at ‘hand-sifting’ of
the meal in trough, all hands go so absorbed in listening, that no sifting
could proceed; in consequence of which the machinery in producing overtook
the in removing, and a general block-up took place.”
“The late Mrs. Grannie Hay,
aged 04 in 1866,” he also states, “was servant at ‘Willie’s Mill’ at the
age of 14 to 15. Her sister also followed her in the same place and
situation. She remembered Burns distinctly as a tall, swarthy, and at that
time rather spare young man, with long black hair on his shoulders,
accustomed to ride Tarbolton from Lochlea or Mossgiel on Freemason lodge
nights or other special occasions. He rod booted; he used to stable his
horse at the mill; was remarkably kind, pleasant, and affable, and
‘straiket her head wi’ his hand on the last occasion when she was ther.’
Her mistress, Mrs. Muir, was a superior woman; could read, write, and
cipher easily; and was fit to maintain discourse with Burns on all topics,
even on poems occasionally rehearsed by him at the tea-table at the mill:
‘aye took his tea when he cam’ about four hours.’ He ‘was a great
frequenter o’ kirks and preachings, baith at Tarbolton and round about, on
which occasions he was often, almost invariably, accompanied by the
‘miller himself’,’ who had a taste for pulpit oratory, and was ‘an unco
judge o’ doctrine.’ ‘Burns would speir in for him as he gaed by, and the
twa gaed awa heighten.’ On one special occasion Grannie Hay remembered
well that Burns complained to the mistress of not being able to finish
some song that had occurred to him on a Sabbath morning, in consequence of
which he was afraid he could not attend church that day--’it wouldna be
richt; he couldna hearken when he was fashed.’ In despair, he rambled out
by some dykeside, where he strolled alone ‘till he got the sang a’ right.’
when he repaired to church as usual with the cheefulness of relief and of
a good conscience. This difficulty and deliverance, it appears, he related
in Mrs. Hay’s hearing with the simplicity of a boy ‘that very morning’ at
the mill afore they gaed up to the kirk!’ One would give much to know what
very song that was. His conversation then and always was cheerful,
entertaining, and correctly pure.”
When the result of Jean
Armour’s second intimacy with the poet was discovered, she was driven from
the dwelling of her incensed parents, and was left in a manner friendless
and destitute. Finding her, says Burns in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop,
“literally and truly cast out in the mercy of the naked elements,” he took
her under his charge, and, according to the writer from whom the above is
quoted, secretly conveyed her to Tarbolton Mill, where she gave birth to
twins under the superintendence and care of his friend and admirer, the
miller’s wife. She was a kind, motherly woman; and when Jean’s
marriage was made public went to Ellisland to “brew the first peck o’ maut“
for the family and celebrate the home-coming. Grannie Hay had a vivid
recollection of the circumstance, and informed the writer quoted above
that “the visit was protracted for a fortnight, and was the cause of much
offence to the old miller, and did not know of his wife’s departure, and
threatened to ding her wi’ a stock when she cam hame. Na, he keepit his
stick by the chimla-lug for twa or three days on purpose, but when he saw
her coming down the road his han’ trummilt, and he set by the stick, and
didna ken what to do wi’ her when she cam ben. But she was angry when he
spiered ath her afterhin’ what way she gaed awa without telling hi or
asking his leave, and syn mair angry words cam on baith han’s. and she
wadna speak to hi ony mair that night; but she spak’ to me, and they war
never sic guid friends after.” The miller, in fact, was much older than
his wife, and her conduct in undertaking such a visit without his
knowledge or permission was decidedly reprehensible. She left the mill, it
appears, one afternoon when the old gentleman was asleep on the ‘deas,’
‘for fear he wad hinder frae gangin’ if he waukenit.’ Grannie Hay, who was
an accomplice in the mistress’s manoeuvre, was charged with the
responsibility of appeasing his wrath when he awoke, and ‘had ill doin’
o’t!”
Burns kept up
correspondence with Mrs Muir after his settlement in Ellisland, and, in
recognition of her kindness to his Jean, presented her with a pair of
silver sugar tongs, which she long treasured. On her death-bed, she gave
them to Mrs Humphrey of Tarbolton. They afterwards came into the
possession of her niece, Miss Ann Humphrey, but for a consideration she
was induced to part with them, and they are now the property of Mr
J.S. Gregory, Kilmarnock. Having had the pleasure of seeing them and
hearing their history narrated, I may add that they are of plain make, and
of the ordinary size. Over the bow the Poet’s name is engraved in fac-simile
of his hand-writing, and on each blade the names of the several
possessors; and the dates on which the relic changed hands are inscribed
in the same manner.
Upon returning to the
village, I entered the Crown Inn for the purpose of recruiting my energies
and enquiring about the memorabilia in possession of the brethren of St
James’ lodge. Here I was shown the chair Burns occupied when
Depute-Master, and also the minute book in which his bold signature
repeatedly occurs as such. The jewel, or badge to which he alludes in his
“Farewell: to the lodge, was put into my hand, as also another interesting
relic in the shape of an autograph letter, dated Edinburgh, August 23rd,
1787. These, with a flag and mallet, I think constitute the whole of the
Burns relics in the possession of this lodge, and the brethren are justly
proud of them, as they have every right to be.
After a rest, “a crack”
(well, I may as well write it down), and a toothful of good malt liquor, I
thanked the brethren in attendance for their courtesy, bade them good-bye,
and crossed over to the Churchyard.
Like most places in the
locality it has undergone a great change since the days of Burns. The
dingy little building in which he worshipped is wholly removed, and a neat
modern edifice, with an elegant spire and clock, erected in its stead. In
pensive mood I wandered among the grassy hillocks and read
semi-obliterated memorials of the now forgotten dead, for many of the
tombstones are old and not a few bear curious and interesting devices. One
near the church door deserves more than passing notice, because it
testifies that Tarbolton, like other districts in Ayrshire, shared in the
perils of the Persecution. It bears the following inscription:--
“HERE LYS WILLIAM SHILLAW
WHO WAS SHOT AT WOOD-
HEAD BY LIEUT. LAUDER FOR HIS ADHEREANCE TO THE WORD
OF GOD AND SCOTLAND’S CONVENANTED WORK OF REFORMATION.
1688. ERECTED 1729. RENEWED, 1810, BY WILLIAM DRINNING.”
Shillaw’s name occurs in a
list of Lieutenant Lauder’s victims in the appendix to “The Cloud of
Witnesses,” but in no other work to which I have had access is it
mentioned, and curious enough, the circumstances of the martyr’s death
appear to have entirely worn out of the traditional mind.
Upon leaving the churchyard
I commenced by homeward journey, but had not proceeded far when the
ringing tones of an anvil smote my ear, and brought to mind the well-known
lines of the poet--
“When Vulcan gies the
bellows breath
And ploughmen gather wi’ their graith.”
Being anxious to see if
this village blacksmith was aught like the one Wordsworth describes, I
looked in at the open door. He lifted his dusky visage, and with several
onlookers glanced enquiringly at me. “Is this the smithy where Burns got
his plough irons sharpened?” I jocularly enquired. “Deed isn’t,” he
replied, “an’ he made a poem sittin’ on that hearth there, an’ wrote it on
the slate on which my grandfather marked his jobs.” This was an unexpected
discovery. “Do you know the name of that poem?” “Deed I dinna, though I
should hae a copy o’t somewhere; but the way it was, my father was for
opening a shop, an’ he askit Burns to make him twa or three lines
mentioning the things he was gaun to sell, so that he might get them set
owre his door--for it was customary in thae days to hae a verse o’ poetry
on a body’s sign--so he sat doon an’ wrote hm aff a screed in which was
named maist everything you can think on.” “Aye,” broke in a friend of the
smith, “an’ there’s a poet here that’s maist as guid as Burns himself’,”
“As Burns!” said I, “then I’d go a good way to see that cahp--Where is
he?” “o, he leeves about a mile up that road; gin ye gang up you’ll likely
fin’ him--he aye carries a pickle o’ his poetry i’e his pouch.” After some
further con- versation with the smith about the verses composed on the
hearth, I bade him goodbye, and set out to make the acquaintance of the
man that promised to be “maist as good’s Burns.” Having held along the
road indicated, in due time I arrived at the farm-steading of Torrcross,
and found my man on the top of a stack filling a cart with sheaves of
grain. Having accused him of “committing the sin of rhyme,” he frankly
admitted the charge, and in proof of his guilt handed me a copy of the
Freemasons’ Journal containing one of his pieces, which, I must say,
flowed smoothly, but to give the reader an idea of John Campbell’s poetic
abilities, the following Masonic song, which was composed for and sung in
the lodge St. James, is subjoined:--
BROTHER BURNS.
“If e’er there was an honored name
To Masonry and Scotia dear,’
“Twas his who gave our lodge to fame,
And oft has worn the ‘jewel’ here.
Then surely ‘tis our duty here,
Whene’er his natal day returns,
To pledge his memory with ‘a tear’--
The memory of Robert Burns.
On Coila’s plains he first drew breath,
‘Twas Coila’s maids he loved and sung,
He won the bard’s immortal wreath,
Lone wand’ring Coila’s woods among.
And Coila’s sons shall honour now--
For sadlly still old Scotland mourns--
The might minstrel of the plough,
The gifted mason, Brother Burns.
“His songs are sung on Ganges’ side,
Zambezi’s banks his strains have heard,
Siberian forest wild and wide
Have echoed strains of Scotia’s bard.
The broad St. Lawrence hears his voice--
Where’er the Scottish wanderer turns,
His name can make the heart rejoice--
The deathless name of Brother Burns.
“But here within our native vale,
On every glen and flowery brae,
On classic Ayr and winding Fail
His fame hath shed a brilliant ray--
And here shall reign his glorious name
Until here shall reign his glorious name
Until the grave its dead unurns,
For every craftsman here can claim
Reflected fame from Brother Burns.
“Then brethren of the lodge St. James,
And sister lodges gathered here,
One silent round his memory claims--
The round requested with ‘a tear.’
Let’s be upstanding to the call
Of him, the bard whom Scotia mourns,
To pledge in solemn silence all--
The memory of Brother Burns.”
Upon taking leave of my
poetic friend, I struck through the fields and steered my course to Fail
Tool. It is situated on the Kilmarnock road about a mile distant from
Tarbolton, at the entrance of a little village--if it may be dignified by
that name--and near to the ruins of what is locally termed Fail Castle,
but which is nothing more than the remains of the manor-house of Fail
monastery--founded and dedicated to Saint Mathurine in 1252. It was
inhabited by a tribe of monks, styled “Fathers of Redemption,” who wore a
white habit with a red and blue cross upon the shoulder, and religiously
devoted themselves to the humane task of redeeming captives from slavery;
but, notwithstanding their sanctity, they appear to have been a merry lot,
who knew what was good for them--that is, if there be any truth in the
following traditional rhymes:--
“The Friars of Fail
Gat never owre hard eggs, or owre thin kail,
For they made their eggs thin wi’ butter,
And their kail thick wi’bread;
An’ the Friars of Fail they made good kail
On Fridays when they fasted,
An’ they never wanted gear enough
As lang as their neighbors’ lasted.”
---------
“The Friars of Fail drank berry-brown ale,
The best that ever was tasted;
The Monks of Fail they made gude kail
On Fridays when they fasted.”
However, the jolly fathers
have passed away, and no portion of their house now remains save the
shattered gable and side-wall of the residence of the prior or chief
minister. But a word may be said regarding its last occupant--a notorious
warlock laird--who was said to possess an evil eye, and to have the
faculty of charming milk from cows, butter from the churn, cheese from the
dairy tab; and to be able not only to foretell future events, but to
control human actions-spreading disease and death among men and cattle by
the simple exercise of his will. One of his acts is made the subject of
the following ballad:-
“THE WARLOCK LAIRD OF
FAIL.”
“As Craigie’s knight was a hunting one day
Along with the Laird of Fail,
They came to a house, wherein the goodwife
Was brewing the shearers’ ale.
“Sir Thomas alighted at the door
Before the Laird of Fail,
‘And will ye gi’e me, goodwife,’ quo he,
‘A drink of your shearers’ ale?’
“’I will gi’e thee, Sir Thomas,’ quo she,
‘A drink of my shearers’ ale;
But gude be here how I sweat and fear
At sight of the Laird of Fail!’
“’What sees auld lucky the Laird about
That may not be seen on me?
His beard so long, so bushy, and strong,
Sure need not affrighten thee!’
“’Tho’ all his face were cover’d with hair,
It never would daunten me;
But youn and old oft have heard it told
That a warlock knight is he.
“’ He caused the death o’ my braw milk cow,
And did not his blastin e’e
Bewitch my barn, cowp many a kirn,
And gaur my auld doggie die?’”
Sir Thomas tells the laird of the goodwife’s tremor and asks
him to “put in the merry pin.” This is agreed to, and the
result is somewhat ludicrous.
“He put then a pin aboon the door
And said some mysterious thing,
And instantly the auld wife she
Began to dance and sing--
“’O good Sir Thomas of Craigie tak’
The warlock laird of Fail
Awa frae me, for he never shall pree
A drap of our shears’ ale!’
“The Laird he cried on the auld gudeman
And sought a drink of his beer;
‘Atweel, quo he, ‘kind sire you shall be
Welcome to all that is here.”
“But just as he passed under the pin,
He roared out--’Warlock Fail,
Awa frae me, for you never shall pree
A drap of our shearers’ ale.’”
The laird and the knight
watch the sport, and as the reapers drop into dinner, they are asked for a
drink of the ale, but they no sooner pass under the merry pin than they
take up the strain of the goodwife and join in the dance, and, according
to the poet,
“They would have sun the
same till yet
Had not the Laird of Fail
Drawn out the pin before he went in
To drink of the shearers’ ale.”
The laird does not appear
to have been very malicious, for many of his cantrips are of a humorous
cast. “One day a man leading an ass laden with crockery ware happened to
pass the castle. The laird, who had a friend with him, offered for a wager
to make the man break his little stock in pieces. The bet was taken,
and immediately the earthenware dealer, stopping and unloading the ass,
smashed the whole into fragments. When asked how he had acted so
foolishly, he declared he saw the head of a large black dog growling out
of each of the dishes ready to devour him. The spot where this is said to
have occurred is till called ‘Pig’s Bush.’ On another occasion, the laird
looked out of the upper south window of the castle. There was in sight
twenty going ploughs. He undertook upon a large wager to make them all
stand still. Momentarily eighteen of them--ploughs, ploughmen, horses, and
gadmen--stood motionless. Two, however, continued to work. One of them was
ploughing the Tarbolton croft. It was found out afterwards that these two
ploughs carried each a piece of rowan-tree--mountain ash--proverbial for
its anti-warlock properties.
‘Rowan-tree and red
thread
Keep the devils frae their speed.’
In what year the death of
the warlock took place is unknown; but circumstances lead us to believe
that it must have been near the close of the seventeenth century. When
about to depart, he warned those around him not to remain in the castle
after his body was carried out; and it being autumn, he further
recommended them not to buy him until the harvest was completed, because
on the day of his interment a fearful storm would ensue. He was
accordingly kept as long as the state of his remains admitted. Still the
harvest was not above half-finished. True as the laird’s prediction, the
moment of the body, on the funeral day, had cleared the doorway, a loud
crash was heard--the castle roof had fallen it. The wind rose with
unexampled fury, the sheaves of corn were scattered like chaff, and much
damage was sustained all over the land. [This ballad and some very
interesting information regarding the monastery and the Warlock Laird will
be found in “songs and ballads of Ayrshire.” From this excellent but scare
work the above anecdotes are taken.]
Passing Fail Mill I held
along the road, and after a long walk reached a spot where two ways meet.
The one to the left--as the milestone states--leads to Kilmarnock and the
other to Galston. Although anxious enough to reach home, I decided upon a
circuitous approach, and held along the Galston highway. The country in
this district is almost wholly under cultivation, and the pedestrian as he
trudges onwards finds little to engage his attention beyond the chirping
birdies that flit in the hedges and the wild flowers whose fragrance is
wafted on the wings of the wind. After a mile of weary thoughtful
plodding, I reached the avenue leading to the farmhouse of Adamhill, which
occupies a rather romantic situation, being planted near to a stripe of
woodland and close to a row of stately trees, whose arms in all
probability, have often shaded Robert Burns when he came to visit the
“rough, tude, redy -witted Rankine” of poetic memory, who had his
residence here. According to Chambers, “he was a prince of boon companions
and mingled a good deal in the society of the neighbouring gentry, but was
too free a liver to be on good terms with the stricter order of the
clergy. Burns and he had taken to each other no doubt the consequence of
their community of feeling and thinking on many points. The youngest
daughter of Rankine had a recollection of the poet’s first visit to their
house at Adamhill, and related that on his coming into the parlour he made
a circuit to avoid a small carpet in the centre, having probably at that
time no acquaintance with carpets, and too great a veneration for them to
tread upon them with his ploughman’s shoes.” The farmhouse is well built,
and the present occupant, Mr. A.G. Parker, is well known for his genial
hospitality.
A little beyond Adamhill, I
entered a pleasant byeroad which winds over hill and dale, and terminates
near the village of Craigie, but before it was traversed
“The sun was out o’
sight,
And darker gloamin’ brought the night.”
Nevertheless, “my heart
rejoiced in Nature’s joy” as I trudged along enjoying the solitude and
watching “the glimmering landscape” fading on the sight. Having passed
Craigie Manse, the snug residence of the Rev. David Stirling, the
respected parish minister, I soon reached the summit of the rocky ridge
over which the highway passes and beheld the light of Kilmarnock gleaming
in the distance. The reader may rest assured that their appearance was
most cheering, and that I stepped out with renewed vigor. After a
brisk but lonely walk, I arrived in Riccarton, and shortly thereafter
received a hearty welcome from my bits o’ bairns. Laying aside my hat and
stick, I sat down by the ingleside a tired but better man from having
visited scenes rendered famous by the poet Burns. |
