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�P R E F A T O R Y
N O T E .
THE traditions here, respecting the death of Marjory Bruce, are
very scanty. It is said that in hunting, near Renfrew, her horse got
entangled in a mire, or morass, by which she was violently thrown
from her saddle, and that she immediately thereafter expired, having
first given birth to a son, who was afterwards Robert 11. of Scotland.
Her remains, and also her effigy, still lie in the Sounding Aisle of our
Abbey Church. The effigy rests upon what was once, doubtless, the
altar of the church. The place where she met her untimely death is
still shown in a comer of one of the fields of the Knock Farm, and
is, as described by Baston, on the slope of the hill looking towards
Renfrew, and is still a mire. Till within these 40 or 50 years, a
stone cross marked the fatal spot. This cross has been carefully,
though unsuccessfully searched for by the present intelligent occupier of the Knock Farm.
Marjory Bruce, along with her mother, was taken prisoner after the
unfortunate battle of Methven, and carried into England. After the
battle of Bannockburn, however, they were both released ; on which
occasion Walter, the Lord High Steward of Scotland, who was much
trusted by Bruce, and who commanded the centre wing of the Scotch
army on that memorable occasion, was sent to meet them on the border, and conduct them to Stirling Castle, where the Scottish court
then was. It was then, doubtless, that that mutual attachment was
formed betwixt the hero and heroine of Baston's poem, which, in the
following year, issued in their marriage. They had been married only about nine months, when the birth of a child, under the
melancholy circumstances described, took place. From the consideration of this incident, we may exclaim with Cicero—
" Quae eximia plerisque et prsaclara videntur, parva ducere."
Had Marjory Bruce's horse fallen a little differently from what it
did, the infant in the womb might have been destroyed. We would
then have had no Stewart dynasty; and what the history of our
country would then have been, who can conjecture ?
How eventful! how instructive to princes and to nations, the history of that wide-spreading dynasty, from the time its first seed was
dropped on the banks of the Cart, to the time its main stem was
hewn down on the banks of the Boyne.
P A I S L E Y , 1839.
�THE
DEATH OF MARJORY BRUCE.
SOUTH BRIDGE,
EDINBURGH,
17th N o v . , 1838.
(To the Editor of the Paisley Advertiser.)
SIR,—Having, recently, made a curious literary
discovery, in connexion with your locality, I think
it but fair that it should be put into your hands.
Your readers are, in general, aware, that Edward
the I I . , in that march into Scotland which terminated in the battle of Bannockburn, brought along with
him a poet of the name of Baston, to celebrate in
verse his anticipated victory ; and that this unlucky
bard fell into the hands of the Scots, who punished
him in a very appropriate way, by making him write
a set of verses, in celebration of their victory over
his countrymen. This poem still remains : beginning
thus:—
" De planctu cudo metrum cum carmine nudo,
Risum retrudo, dam tali themate ludo."
W e say all this is well known to most of your
readers ; but few of them, we dare say, know that
this Baston, during his abode in Scotland, had his
domicile in the castle of Renfrew, the then principal
seat of the Lord High Steward of Scotland: that he
was residing there, when the death of his noble hostess took place, by her horse falling upon her as she
�rode from Paisley homewards ; and that he composed a set of Latin verses on that melancholy occasion,
in which he, most likely, describes what he had actually witnessed. Now we have had the good fortune to
find a copy of these verses which had so long- remained concealed, though often sought for by our
antiquaries.
We have made a free translation of
this poem. It is, perhaps, rather too long for your
paper, but, if you choose, you may publish it. You
must have still various floating traditions about the
sad catastrophe to which it relates ; and it may be
curious to compare these with the actual facts, as
related by a competent eye-witness. Some useful
conclusions might perhaps be deduced, on the nature
of evidence from such a comparison.
Yours, truly,
GEORGE
THOMSON.
[The lamentable death of Marjory Bruce, daughter of King
Robert the Bruce, and wife to Walter, the Lord High Steward of Scotland, which happened near to the Castle of Renfrew, on Mid-Summer eve, in the year 1316.]
'Twas even tide, the long bright day
"Was passing like a saint away ;
Still as it faded smiling meeker,
And touched with raptures holier, deeper ;
The sun ne'er built him fairer bowers,
To linger out eve's farewell hours,
The cloud-wove curtains of the sky,
Were never dipped in richer die,
And never did the peaks below
Dissolve amid so bright a glow.
From where the distant mountain's blue,
Emboldening meets the verdant hue
Of old Kilpatrick's woody slope,
To the Mistilaw's lone, western cope,
�The heavens a prophet's vision seems,
Or pageant of the world of dreams.
Full from that sanctuary of light,
With levell'd aim, superbly bright,
A glory o'er the green land pours,
Gilding its spires and banner'd towers.
Clyde like a vine-tinged current flows,
Like gold old Paisley's Abbey glows.
Swift slaunting, as a path-way meet
For some descending angel's feet,
Through its broad window pour'd the ray
Amid the long-ranged pillars grey,
To one wide warm empassion'd smile,
Flushing the cold dim western aisle.
It onward streamed, its mellow fire
A t length slept in the hallowed choir,
But, ere it kissed the sacred ground,
It met and beamed a glory round—
A rich-rob'd, Queen-like one, whose knee,
In midst of that fair sanctuary,
On cloth of gold is meekly bent,
Like some imploring penitent.
Her maidens and her knightly band,
With reverence deep at distance stand,
Nor Queen nor penitent is she,
But the fair Lady Marjory ;
A Bruce in soul as well as name,
Of meek but yet majestic mein.
The noblest knight in all the land,
The princely Stewart won her hand ;
And, soon, in hope's exulting glow
She waits a Mother's joy to know.
The mass is said, the vesper hymn
Floats mellow through the arches dim,
Soft mingling with the organ's swell,
Bidding the day a sweet farewell;
Whilst through the silent, gazing throng
The priestly train slow moves along,
T o seek the cloister's calm retreat,
Or silent cell for musing meet.
Then following came a noble band,
The grace, the beauty of the land,
Fair maidens in life's blooming May,
Like flowers woo'd by the morning ray,
�6
All blushing freshness, yet each face
Was solemn like the saintly place ;
As soft as falling snow they tread,
Each by a youthful warrior led,
Whose iron tramp, with ringing sound,
Startles the tomb-like echoes round.
But like the moon, serenely bright,
Calm gliding 'mid the stars of night,
Amid that glittering company
Slow paced the Lady Marjory.
Her placid brow, uplifted eye,
Spoke of high commerce with the sky,
Whilst the quick flushings of her cheek
Earth's hopes and anxious fears bespeak.
Now, 'twixt the western turret's hoar
They issue through the deep-arched door,
And never did a scene more bland
E'en in earth's richest climes expand
Than that fair one which round them lay
Like eye-enrapturing melody.
E'en like an angel's kiss, the air
Met the warm brow, and sounds were there,
Like angel-whispers, lover's-vows,
Heard 'mid the gently swinging boughs ;
Whilst, in soft harmony below,
Was heard the darkening river's flow,
And oft the mellow piping thrush
Pour'd forth her lay from shady bush,
A flood of music, liquid, clear,
Thrilling the calm air far and near.
Each lady reins her palfrey light,
Quick on his steed has sprung each knight ;
Along the green path, down the stream,
Like dreamers of some bright day-dream,
So, slowly, silently they ride
Onward to Renfrew's halls of pride,
Where, emblem of the Stewart's power,
His banner waves o'er massy tower.
Behind the far hills of Argyle
The sun had set, but still the smile,
Like hectic flush on beauty's cheek,
Of fading light plays round each peak ;
�Sweet as an infant's laughing eye,
Eve's dewy star beam'd down the sky.
Like visions, that in glory J^laze
Before ambition's fervid gaze,
And whilst he grasps them, melt away—
The crimson west had chang'd to grey.
And now they reach the sloping green,
Whence the broad castle's walls are seen
Their dark and massive bulk to heave ;
While, through the mellowing tints of eve,
They seem aerial halls pil'd high,
That mock the gazer's, wildered eye.
But, hark ! clear through the forest borne
Is heard the blast of bugle horn,
And in the garb of Lincoln green,
A weary hunting band is seen :
The note, from her long reverie,
Has roused the lady Marjory.
It is the blast she loves to hear,
That tell's her that her lord is near.
With joy she sees his coming train—
Slacks her impatient palfrey's rein;
That, long close curb'd, now bounds away
Like unleash'd hound upon his prey.
Nor answers now the guiding rein
But with high bound and proud-toss'd mane.
Though plunging on with furious speed,
Long trained to rein a mettled steed,
The graceful rider, firm, erect,
Calm, seeks his headlong course to check.
Forth springs a knight to seize her rein,
But ere his hand her hand could gain,
Still sweeping on with furious speed,
Deep in a mire had plunged her steed.
He falls, rolls o'er, and, woe the day !
His noble rider 'neath him lay.
T o aid, all wildly rush around,
And quickly from their saddles bound.
Her frantic maidens' scream of fear
Has reached the good Lord Steward's ear :
He starts—he sees the hurrying throng,
With arrow speed he spurs along :
�He speeds—but faster still life's tide
Is ebbing in his youthful bride !
But when his tones pf love she hears,
And meets his eye all drowned in tears,
And feels his thrilling warm embrace,
A flush plays o'er her livid face,
Like flowers that o'er a lone grave blow,
Or sunbeam on a wreath of snow.
A s waking from a troubled dream,
Her dark soft eye's dilated beam
Meets his mute gaze, and, bright'ning; still,
Like morning o'er the eastern hill,
I t pours, at length, so strange a light,
So bland, yet so intensely bright,
Her soul seemed to a seraph turned,
And with a seraph's rapture burned,
Pours like the glowing spirits above,
The tongueless eloquence of love.
And voiceless too, like spell-bound band,
All motionless her maidens stand.
They heave no sigh, they shed no tear,
D e e p awe has mastered grief and fear ;
Almost arrested, pulse and breath
And given each cheek the hue of death.
The spell is broke—they hear a moan—
And lo ! those eyes they gazed upon
A r e soulless ! pall'd in death's black night,
Is she who was the centre bright
That held a nation's gaze,—the one
"Who, like the summer's morning sun,
W o k e harmony, and joy, and love,
Where'er her graceful steps might move.
But life and death, strange mingle : lo !
A joy blends with the bitter woe.
A cherub smiles, an heir is born;
A s from eve's shades had sprung the morn.
T o Scotland, thus, by pitying Heaven,
A future hero may be given.
Sum Carmelita, B A S T O N cognomine dictus
Qui doleo vita in tali strage relictus.
�
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Title
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The Death of Marjory Bruce, Daughter of King Robert the Bruce, And Wife to Walter, The Lord High Steward of Scotland, Which happened near to the Castle of Renfrew, on Mid-Summer eve, in the year 1316. A Poem
Date
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1839
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953133953505154">s0141b34</a>
Is Part Of
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Chapbook #52 in a bound collection of 54 chapbooks
Extent
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8 pages
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<a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a>
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
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Paisley: J. Neilson
Subject
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Courtship and Marriage
Robert I, King of Scots, 1274-1329
Poetry
Chapbooks - Scotland - Paisley
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
# of Woodcuts: 0
Chapbook Date: 1831-1840
Chapbook Genre: poetry
Chapbook Genre: romance
Chapbook Publisher - Paisley: J. Neilson